


A bunch of Sherlock one-shots

by LadyHeliotrope



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Fluff and Angst, M/M, One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-01
Updated: 2020-02-01
Packaged: 2021-02-27 19:15:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 21
Words: 51,857
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22500817
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyHeliotrope/pseuds/LadyHeliotrope
Summary: To Be Put Up With - "Why do I even put up with you?" A very loaded question from John makes Sherlock's hackles rise and they confront each other about John's reluctance to separate his emotional irritations from his love of Sherlock. They also address John's tendency to use blogging as a maladaptive strategy. Oneshot. Established relationship. Post Reichenbach.A Violin Singing Alone in the Darkness - This is the first time ever that John's spent a night away from Baker Street. Sherlock encounters himself and is vulnerable. Oneshot. Post-RB. Angst.And more!
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Kudos: 6





	1. Chapter 1

"Stop," said Sherlock.

But John, engaged in his blog-writing, just cast him a glare that said, "You're mad as a hatter and make no sense" before plunging back again into the depths of his recollection. He squinted against the light of reality that threatened his carefully-formed sentences, like a tide threatened a child's sand castles.

He heard Sherlock again say, "John, stop, this is getting out of hand," but it was too unpleasant to be drawn from the imaginal world by _Sherlock_ , of all creatures. Since when was he an expert on getting too wrapped up in a project? He himself was a prodigy at ignoring people who were trying to interrupt him.

So John closed his eyes against his computer screen and roommate, daring his flatmate and lover to try and distract him one more time.

Not that it was particularly pleasant where he was trying to be, he noted sourly. Because the place he was trying to be was all tension, clouds, vapor, and chaos. It was not a place of peace but of creation, of new life, of birth and of resurrection, affected by a volcanic, primordial fire that singed every man who dared to show his face there.

There was only solemnity and the cackling laughter of manic inspiration in this underground place of unconscious stirrings, and John existed there with these feelings, as jarring and stirring as any he had ever experienced. He felt things, ideas, visions he couldn't give a nme to or identify, and they were pressing against the walls of his head. He was at once enraptured by the beauty of the place and very aware that he could possibly become mad if he stayed there too long.

"This. Ends. _Now_."

Sherlock slammed the laptop face down and wrenched it out of john's numb grasp.

"What the _hell_ are you doing?" cried John, only more plaintiveness in his anger once before, when he'd arrived home to find Sherlock shooting up the walls.

Sherlock's answer was concise, brilliantly on-target, and exactly the least pleasant thing John wanted to hear.

"Your blog-writing is a maladaptive strategy you use to put off doing the things you know you ought to be doing," said Sherlock airily, flopping onto the couch with a cup of cold tea to his lips.

"Oh, and obviously since you've got back from M _ars_ , that's something you're an expert on, is it?" replied John hotly, standing up and, inadvertently, proving Sherlock's point by tackling the dishes in the sink.

"I wasn't on _Mars_ , dont be silly," replied the detective with a shrug. "I couldn't have given you more details about where I was in the time-"

John interrupted sarcastically. "-Yeah, details like, 'John, I spent several months in a country where a delicacy is stewed monkey brains turned into a pudding."

"Exactly," returned Sherlock, "With that information alone someone less good intentioned than my brother would be able to trace my whereabouts to at least three murders in east Asia - you see why it is so difficult to say more?"

A cry of aggravation arose from John's throat and he groaned heartily. "God, why I even put up with you..."

But Sherlock didn't respond for a moment, and John just continued to scrub dishes, noticing Sherlock's silence immediately. But first he denied the possibility that the silence was the symptom of a problem, so he waited, just listening. He reluctantly acknowledged, after five minutes of silence, that every second he waited the problem was festering in Sherlock's heart, growing like a sick snowball of pathogens, getting worse and worse every moment he didn't confront it.

That image didn't make John move any faster. Indeed, it made him work slower, putting off the inevitable damage control efforts he would have to make momentarily.

So when the sink was divested of dishes, he looked up reluctantly, his eyes lingering on the faucet. He saw Sherlock standing noiselessly at the sitting-room window, head bent with glumness.

"Ok, what did I say?" asked John, and without further words he advanced upon Sherlock and drew the creature into his embrace.

Thereupon Sherlock weakly resigned himself to the hug, returning it but remaining numbly transfixed by the view of the street even with his head on John's shoulder.

A slight movement of the jaw indicated that Sherlock was preparing to say something, his tongue forming his words around the syllables he wanted to say.

John suggested, "Go on then, say it."

"I don't tolerate being _put up with_ ," Sherlock said at last. "If you are going to _put up with_ me, it would be better that you do that elsewhere and not in the place I live and consider a safe space."

"Oh, god, Sherlock, you know I was joking," said John. Though as much as he denied it, he knew there was a grain of truth in Sherlock's problem.

"Aside from the fact that jokes don't exist, John, because all so-called jokes are reflections of unconscious desires manifesting in awkward or unusual ways...nonetheless, this phrase _put up with_ is altogether too highly relied upon in your vocabulary." Sherlock spoke daintily, stringing his words together with precise care. "MYCROFT can put up with me, but not you, John. It's important that you don't think of me as something you have to _put up with_."

"Oh, of course I didn't mean it," said John again, feeling guilty and also angry because he felt his guilt was unjustified.

"Ah, but if that's what you keep saying to yourself, John, you'll never get at the truth," said Sherlock in reply. "The more you insist it was a joke, the more you're trying to convince _yourself_ of your own innocence."

Finding Sherlock's own vehemence to be amusing, John replied barely without laughing. The whole thing seemed so ridiculous. "I'm trying to convince _you_ , you stupid berk," retorted John warmly, with false pettiness, pressing his cheek against Sherlock's neck and rocking the other man gently.

"I swear, are you doing this to irritate me, or are you genuinely being an unyielding prick?" asked Sherlock bitterly, not taking this in a humorous light at all.

"Oh, the prick, definitely the prick," answered John laughingly, but there was a subtle tinge of _why do I put up with this_ in his voice.

Sherlock picked up on it immediately.

"Ah, there it is," said Sherlock with menace. "That attitude is most unbecoming, John, and I wish for you to let go of me if you are going to repress yourself in this way."

And instead, John tightened his hold on the detective, which made Sherlock squirm and try and get away.

"No," replied John to this effort with a small, childish voice, " _Mine_."

"And therein is the whole problem of the matter," said Sherlock in a dry tone, and like a cat he ducked out of John's arms and raced across the room to retreat to the farthest corner, as if he expected John might chase him.

Realizing the enormity of whatever was amiss here, but not sure how much of it he could take rightly on his shoulders, John sat in the armchair and closed his eyes against Sherlock's pale, hunted look.

"I'm not ' _yours,'_ " spat Sherlock, "And you never will be. I am not a woman - said only because women continually seem to disavow themselves of their own human rights even in this enlightened twenty-first century for the sake of men - or a possession, as much as you imagine otherwise. I do not, have never, and will never subscribe to the suppressive social models of repression that dominated in the 19th century. Nor will I let myself be subject to anything less superior than my own mind. I am ruled by my own self alone."

"Ok," said John in response to this tirade, feeling like a cad, but also feeling like Sherlock was just trying to make him feel like a cad. "But I do think you're blowing up this situation a little bit."

"There's nothing wrong with _me_ ," replied Sherlock savagely. "Look at it from my view, John - I see that your unconscious is so primitave and inaecure that it has to label its things with a mark of possession. When these things cause you difficulty, you do not accept the trials of the other person as some trial they are experiencing but you see it as a conspiracy against you and your person and your satisfaction and your balance and your place in the world. The things that bother you are things that go against your preferred reality, and they threaten you because you have no control over them and the reality they come from.

"Hence, when I have a legitimate issue of concern, you dismiss it and act _put upon_ \- it is easier than accepting you have no relevance in the equation, to inherently believe that my hesitance to speak is exclusively to confuse you. And it is easier to respond to this feeling of inadequacy that as much as you shove it away still exists with excessive assertion of control such as that hideous screeching _'m_ _ine'_ you displayed earlier."

John was dumbfounded by this stream of information, and he sank down onto the couch, defeated, while Sherlock advanced towards him.

"Ok," said John, "Sometimes I forget how much you've changed, and moments like this make it all come back to me."

At Sherlock's look of patient, carefully muted concern at this statement, John added, "It's just as I have said before - gone is the puerile creature who couldn't even speak the word _love_ , and what's left is a maturing masterpiece that has brought together everything in the world that I know and that I think is beautiful."

He dared not say the deepest feeling he was having, however - _it's clear you've been learning a lot over the years. I could use every word you used just now to describe_ me _to describe your past self._

But maybe some part of that feeling got communicated to Sherlock, whose eyes lit up suddenly with a nuance of enhanced understanding.

And then Sherlock bounded over the back of the couch and embraced the doctor readily. It was as if they were speaking the same language again. "I like when you say that sort of thing," said Sherlock, as he brought his forehead against John's.

"Then are you okay?" asked John, deeply relieved that his roommate and lover was balanced again. He felt like he was getting too old to deal with Sherlock's temper any more.

"Are _you_ okay?" asked Sherlock with a merry laugh, pressing a gentle smiling kiss against John's relaxed mouth, and they let their tongues communicate physically against each other, patting and caressing in their own microscopic version of their world.

Some time later, Sherlock leaned his head onto John's shoulder and the doctor decided he wanted to finish his writing task.

"I acknowledge that it might be a maladaptive habit, but can I finish that blog post?" asked the doctor.

Whereupon Sherlock slipped off John - and the couch - like an eel onto the floor, where he rolled half under the coffee-table.

"Your therapist did tell you to do it," said Sherlock from this hiding place. "I guess it's better than World of Warcraft."

"Oh, you," said John with a gentle smile, kicking his partner playfully with stockinged toes.

As he sat down to finish his documentation of _The Adventure of the Blue Card Barnacle_ , however, John was struck deeply as he began to slip into the unconscious world that he accessed for the purpose of writing.

There was so much, he realized with sadness, that Sherlock was right about when it came to emotions - and so often he wanted to deny Sherlock's _rightness_ just because John wanted to call emotionality _his_ area. _  
_

The greater fool, he.

Sherlock's feelings were just as important as his own, and however Sherlock expressed them should be respected.

Filled with shame that he promised to examine further later, he ignored it for the present and went deep into his memory work.


	2. A Violin Singing Alone in the Darkness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is the first time ever that John's spent a night away from Baker Street. Sherlock encounters himself and is vulnerable. Oneshot. Post-RB. Angst

_Sunshine..._

Sherlock unfurled his limbs and rose from the couch, like a flower bending down its petals to meet the morning. He cast a painful grimace at his neglected violin and padded across the room. The window was open to hear the sounds of the street, and he was disappointed to see the heavy gray sky when he pulled back the curtains.

The sunshine this morning wasn't much sunshine at all. It was cold, sterile, begrudging, as if Apollo had been mistreating his exhausted horses the day after a bleak journey to the underworld and back.

In any case, the sunshine wasn't helping him.

Then again, not much else could.

The night before, Sherlock had worshipped the moonlight.

He'd waited a decent and appropriate amount of time before texting John with a curt "how is your date?"

He'd kept his temper when he only received a reluctant "good" in reply.

He'd ignored the dinner that John diligently put in a plastic bag and left in the 'fridge, because it was the only way he could spite John in his absence.

Oh, no, wait a moment - he'd almost forgot that secret package of cigarettes.

He'd enjoyed them in an unsurpassed nicotine binge on the doorstep, the entire pack, looking like a bum in his housecoat and bare feet but not caring, and trying to feel nothing but the cold.

He'd watched the smoke curl upwards and caress the big, splendid, glowing moon, clouds and smoke becoming indistinguishable parts of the same gauzy fabric that surrounded the precious orbiting stone.

If John were around, he would practice his music like the glorious flower he was, but the night had fallen and John was not here, and John was the best conductor of light to be had in the darkness. The violin did not respond well without sunshine.

He'd watched the Friday night revelers struggle back to their homes, laughing shrilly and staring agape at him when they passed, too drunk to realize how rude they were.

He'd laughed silently back at them until he realized what he was doing, and why, and decided that their laughter was perhaps deserved.

Who else would sit and curse direct orders from his most patient supporter to avoid the things that were killing him?

The moon was laughing at him, too; Artemis knew the value of trickery in her hunts, and her golden-horned deer were unafraid of drawing her through the mist off the Thames as she unerringly pointed her arrow at him. Accusing him - how dare he reject his music? Her arrow and bow challenged him to draw up his own bow and create a sweet, gentle, dark, complex melody on his instrument. He could pierce her heart more effectively with music than she could with her weapon.

So he'd stamped out the remainder of that last cigarette on the pavement and gone back inside, upstairs, retiring to his flower-box once more.

But the moonlight became more intimidating as he got closer to it in height. He'd sat on the windowsill, staring up at the moon that jeered his cowardice and dared him to slip and fall. He'd texted John again, asking how he was.

He'd got a simple reply:

"Fine. Good dinner. Won't be back till late."

Then, a few minutes later.

"Never mind. Won't be back tonight. ;)"

If it hadn't had the damned winky-smiley, as chipper and mysterious and mischievous and cruel as Puck, Sherlock might have been able to spend the night without cracking.

But as he looked upon the semicolon and parentheses that struck his most sensitive nerve, a few teardrops escaped the petals of his eyelids.

_I ache for the sunshine. I ache for it. I ache for it. I ache for it. I'm so cold, brittle, lost in the darkness, and alone..._

The sadness quickly became anger, but only because anger was more acceptable than real _feelings_.

It was even worse because he'd been steeling himself for this circumstance for months.

He'd been telling himself over and over that it was _all fine._ It was the natural course of things. John would eventually find a girl he liked enough to spend the night with. Moreover, this was not only a natural course of events, but permissible: John had every right to spend a night out.

Sherlock hated the idea of restricting John in any particular, most of all _sex_.

Of course it wasn't as if John hadn't had sex with any of his girlfriends just because he'd never spent a night out before. John had to get his sunshine from someplace, hadn't he? While he didn't kiss and tell, upon his return Sherlock knew exactly how far John'd got with his date. It really was written all over him in the most disconcerting of manners.

Disconcerting perhaps because maybe John didn't care if Sherlock knew what had happened. John didn't care enough about what Sherlock thought to hide anything.

So Sherlock wasn't worried about the _sex_ bit as a general rule. But it was different somehow if it was sex that kept John away all night

If John's pursuit of sex kept him from Baker Street for any significant duration of time, Sherlock felt he might as well go unnoticed.

Sherlock, as it happened, spent a lot of his time trying to ensure that he didn't go unnoticed. But as much as John lauded him, he wasn't sure that John actually _did_ notice. Or, again, maybe it was more a matter of John _not caring._

The sunshine would be back in the morning, Sherlock reminded himself steadily. The night would be over, both metaphorically and literally, and John would have an awkward waking-up moment in the same bed as the woman he'd had sex with the night before, and he'd shower and dress in his day-old clothes and hurry back to Baker Street early to shower and dress for the day. The sun would shine in the morning, and the day would be beautiful and golden with its glow, and he would take up his violin and play a song without words to express his joy that John was back.

This anticipation didn't make him forget the fact that ultimately, in mentally preparing for this night, he had been hoping that he wouldn't care.

Now that he knew that he did... was he getting soft in the head, ordinary, useless?

He kneeled at the window, almost in an attempt to supplicate the gods, and ached with not knowing what was going on in John's world.

A moth clutched against the grime of the window sill with waterlogged wings, and Sherlock wished for the sun to rise and dry them, wishing too that the sun would go through to the dark ugly seeds inside him and soften them white.

It was a pitiful thing, to try and justify one's own desires and anxieties by advocating for the cause of another.

The celestial gods were not fooled, and Mercury took a few steps farther away from the Baker Street clocks so they ticked ever slower. All the while, the heavy, solemn moon beamed upon him with the warm silver smile of a midwife grown tired of her demanding client. Impregnating someone with inspiration was easy enough work, but drawing forth the result through labor was another.

Artemis was smiling, though, not looking on sternly, and Sherlock knew he had best ride this one out. It wasn't his place to bother John at this time. The sun had to set once a day, after all, and while the moon was an unfulfilling substitute, that was not its own fault.

By virtue of this thought he resisted texting John further, aside from 'have a good night.'

Then Sherlock wished, wished, wished that John would read something more in those four little words, because there was much more written between them, but if John couldn't see them without prompting, perhaps he didn't deserve to see them. Sherlock was the man in the cave, and if John wouldn't bring him light there so that Sherlock could play his violin, then Sherlock would die in the dark and silence, alone but his dignity intact.

He let the waterlogged moth climb onto his finger, and he placed it gently on the scroll of his violin. Perhaps the gesture would please the gods that looked upon him so cruelly today.

Oh - there was another package of emergency cigarettes.

Sherlock smoked, smoked, smoked at the open window and curled his toes against the cold and tried to feel like the world had something to offer him.

He'd been waiting for this night for many months, ever since John had started dating again. And he'd been planning how to cope with it ever since he realized that he found John's dating personally problematic.

That didn't make encountering the reality of his current situation any easier. In fact it made him feel more worthless to understand that he'd tried to prepare adequately for this contingency because it was clear that he hadn't prepared _enough_.

He hadn't cultivated his inner garden enough that it could survive this particular storm without the sun.

Now he looked at the ruins of the roses he was beginning to grow in his Mind Palace, grafts from John's own inner bountiful bushes. He felt depressed that the vegetables and poisonous flora that grew so well in the Mind Palace were so lonely-looking in their greens and browns.

His whole Mind Palace could use the touch of cleansing, warm sunshine. Not just in the bursts that John provided on a daily basis, as part of a running dialogue of grumpy bickering and laughs and genuine comradeship.

He mused on what he'd permit John to do to his body - what would _need_ John to do to his body - to get such a task accomplished as spring cleaning of the Mind Palace, and of his soul locked deeply inside it.

Some beautiful music was archived there, quivering and alive and waiting to spring out of its confines, like plump white moonlike bosoms in a tight corset eager to breathe the air of liberty. All that was needed was the gentle sunshine kiss of a prince to awaken the eyes of the sleeping beauty.

Dreaming of Tchaikovsky and lilacs, Sherlock dozed with his head against the window frame, but returned to wakefulness at the sound of cars going down the street.

The noise of their purring engines reverberated against the cloudy sky, cut through the thick atmosphere, and traveled through the high-walled corridor that was Baker Street. Sherlock thought it sounded like the ocean, or perhaps fallen angels, with hoarse voices that ebbed and flowed like the tide, faint and melancholy and mournful and earth-bound, silent and invisible creatures crawling in the shadows, infectious and contentious and angry, simply angry.

They would be willing to do anything to get a devilish youth like Sherlock on their side, to tempt him into breaking his promises and trap him in the snares of his own superior mind.

It was only them that made him think of death at that moment as he looked at the moonlight that still challenged him to let his heart blossom in the darkness and practice his violin. He told himself he was bored of it and allowed himself to hate everything around him, and he cast the evil eye on all the furniture, and his instrument in its open case.

The spirits were sinister and cruel who reminded him of the beauty of a high that he had experienced that _first time_ using. That first time he'd opened himself to the world in all his youthful vulnerability.

And now he vowed against seeking it, usually because of John, who was the most compelling reason to do anything worthwhile these days. John was the sunshine, and most flowers only opened in the presence of sunshine, which affected their biophysical rhythms.

But John wasn't here right now and...

Sherlock dared not complete the thought.

The sunshine, he begged to remind himself, remember that the sunshine will come in the morning. With it, the bees will rise, somewhere out in the country, since bees were an infrequent sight in London even in the clearer air of the 21st century city.

Bees were phallic-looking creatures, symbolic of life, mediators between the worlds of death and life, eternally playing a vital role in the promotion of the human race. They bore the pollen that made the flowers pregnant and fertile. They burrowed their heads inside the petals they adored and made love to the flower, gently and awkwardly.

It was only a fleeting gesture, ravishing the virgin flower, but once this had taken place, most of the work of reproduction had been done, and all that was left was for the flower to wilt and age and sink under the burden of a heavy fruit or seed pouch and slowly let it drop.

No, it was no mystery to him why bees fascinated Sherlock so much - bees were soldiers in the most beautiful and tragic romance Sherlock could imagine, the flowers were the homebound virgins who encountered the bees as they traveled, and they never resented the bees' flirtations but instead cherished the seeds left by their visitors.

The feminine flowers lived their whole lives just for this one encounter with the masculine bee, and they had filled their highest purpose when their duty by nature was done.

Also, bees were phallic-looking creatures. Sherlock had made that connection a long time ago, spending hours in his yard at home, watching the insects, and avoiding Mycroft's terse hypocrisy.

John, ever the busy worker-bee himself, would join him in the glory that was a beautiful sunshining morning, getting ready to collect pollen from his usual favorite flowers - the clinic, the hospital, Tesco's - and in his fuzzy, warm, striped, golden-haired self, Sherlock would find comfort. He would solicit honey from John, as he always did, in the forms of attention, praise, and acceptance. Sometimes, on occasions, touch. And he would join John's buzzing joyfully with the music of Rimsky-Korsakov, because he was a multitalented flower with a sense of humor.

Then again, it was unfair of him to believe himself a mere flower, given how much of John's time he monopolized. Sherlock knew he was actually a hyperdramatic Queen Bee, but in this position of authority and command he was deeply aware of his vulnerability. He mostly survived because of the strength of John's efforts, convictions, and ministrations, not his own. He flailed when he tried to function as an ordinary human being. The wings he bore were not strong enough to bear his body.

So he withdrew from the window where the moon continued to laugh at him, from beneath a veil of clouds and fog, and soon all he could see was the shine of it on the wooden floor as he collapsed on his couch. It also reflected against his violin-strings.

He wasn't going to sleep, but he wasn't going to stay fully awake, either.

There were no drugs in the flat, but sure as hell there was alcohol.

So he only noticed the morning had come when the sun had been up for an hour. Mostly, he thought as he looked out the window again into the gray of the street below, because the sunshine was of underwhelming vibrancy this morning.

Indeed, the morning sunshine was cold, brittle, astringent, annoyed, and unwilling to talk to him.

Sherlock mourned the difference between the ideals he sought and the reality he faced.

_Sunshine. Beautiful sunshine._ _Sunshine is cold when it is forced._

It was no more healthy in color than florescent lighting in St. Bart's lab. He cursed himself - he would have been more productive spending his night there.

And then he heard a taxi, and he quickly closed the window and pulled the curtains and went back to the couch and threw a folded blanket over himself so that John wouldn't know that Sherlock'd noticed John's return.

The door opened, and against it Sherlock shuddered involuntarily at the cold draft from the hallway. The sunshine was indeed accompanied by the feeling of winter. Sherlock's muscles tensed against it like petals against a storm.

"You up?" asked John, and Sherlock didn't stir, but his eyes were open and wet against the brocade of the couch. John took this as a signal to enter the bathroom without further words, and Sherlock closed his eyes and breathed deeply, firmly, and desperately, his breath warming the cool fabric against which he pressed his face.

But then - lo!- a flutter of movement caught his peripheral vision, and he tipped his head up to see that the clouds had parted very briefly, giving an encouraging smile of light that shone directly on his violin. This blush of gold set the moth, wings now dry, fluttering across the room.

Sherlock wasn't about to miss cues when he saw them, and he got up, very quietly, and picked up his violin.

It was time to lure the sunshine towards his petals with a song.


	3. The Yogi

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock got himself a motorbike after being inspired by a Yogi in the Himalayas. Oneshot. Post-Reichenbach. Established relationship.

Three years and some months after Sherlock had leaped from the top of St. Bart's Hospital, Sherlock pulled off the motorbike helmet and gave John a standard response to the _really, why do I even ask_ glare that he received from the good doctor.

"Yes. You know how seriously I take my work." With that, Sherlock moved casually across the room.

The years had been good to Sherlock in subtle and mysterious ways. When John had met him, Sherlock was a closed-off, rough-edged geode, a pocket of volcanic rock harboring an incredible beauty that was clearly _there_ but not visible. John liked to think that he'd been part of the external forces that caused Sherlock's hard exterior to give way and open, revealing its glorious crystalline striations. Now, having Sherlock back in his life, it was delightful - with every day Sherlock's exquisite interior embraced the sunshine, Sherlock grew more and more exceptionally beautiful.

These days, John didn't need to invest so much energy and time into polishing Sherlock and preventing his interior beauty from soilage. Sherlock was much more self-assured than before, in a different way - not puerile and arrogant but thoughtful, poised, and unconcerned when met with criticism.

His spirit and body had a sense of connectedness that John hadn't noticed before, evident in even how Sherlock removed his gloves and tossed them over his shoulder in the general vicinity of the coat rack. How Sherlock's svelte leather jacket of sinfully sensuous smoothness was dropped half on the table and half on John's lap, a feat of particular note because John was neither sitting on the table nor the floor but in the self-appropriated _John_ armchair. How the aforementioned helmet was deposited with lingering reverence in the place that, John remembered, the skull had once taken its respite. It was the same careless Sherlock who regarded all things with existential curiosity and indifference, but his carelessness was refined and marked by an unperturbedness as opposed to repressed anger at all the world.

"I can't believe it," John said, picking the sleeve of the jacket out of his mug of tea, but proceeding to take a sip anyway, "you actually went out and got yourself a _motorbike_." John felt like he had changed only a little - whereas before such a response might have been automatic and accompanied by true shock in the context of their earlier friendship, he had an increased awareness of the nuances of his own feelings now, and he realized that he was perpetuating the old pattern out of habit, not because he was strictly surprised by Sherlock. It was just part of the language with which he communicated with Sherlock.

"Yes." Sherlock's hand, in a moment of apparent sentimentality, fiddled with the helmet's visor, toying with the hinge and flipping it open and closed. His body, ever too thin, vibrated with the movement.

John took a pensive sip of his tea, then quirked his head a little as he gave birth to a question. "So how did you get his attention, anyway? It's not as though you could just waltz in there and say, hello Mister Lance Armstrong of motorbiking, did you drive from France to Belgium and back again just to get a foreign post-stamp to mail your ex-wife the ears of her extramartial lover who you murdered?"

This was the case that had occupied Sherlock for the past day and a half, but only occupied - he'd come up with a solution immediately, and, for lack of better things to do, had obsessed about the means of extracting a confession. Mostly difficult due to the suspect's celebrity more than anything else.

Sherlock shrugged, tore himself away from his brown study of the helmet, and collapsed on the couch. "I beat him at his own game."

The question that followed was merely prolonging the inevitable. "So...you mean roulette or something, yeah?" John intuited that it probably wasn't what Sherlock had meant by the man's 'own game.' But he liked to peel away the exterior of the geode slowly, like an onion, and sometimes that meant tears. Sherlock liked to reveal things slowly, and at his own pace.

"Elementary, my dear John. I beat him in a race."

Thereupon John effected the type of face that Sherlock seemed to adore eliciting - his jaw fell. It wasn't feigned whatsoever. John was genuinely flummoxed - but then again, that was what living with Sherlock Holmes tended to achieve.

"You didn't!"

"No, not really," Sherlock said with slight regret, "I cheated. Adding a sordylcarbon hydroxy-flavinate solution to the standard composition of fuel that is used at that racetrack accelerates the already high-energy combustion process. Child's play. Though, I'll grant, if the race had been longer than fifteen minutes the engine would probably have exploded."

This further disturbed John, who clearly had many unvoiced protests but hadn't managed to get his jaw moving yet. Sherlock was a cat with a few thousand lives under his belt, that was for certain. John was torn between gratitude that Sherlock was still miraculously alive and wanting to skin the man for having had such a close encounter with death _on purpose_.

_It's as if you don't care how much I love you_ , John thought, feeling a little betrayed but knowing that this was part of the territory - if you accepted being in a relationship with Sherlock Holmes, you also accepted all the stupid, idiotic, utterly brilliant things he did.

As if John never had accepted these things! At least now accepting Sherlock's manic lifestyle meant that John got some kisses (and other things) out of the arrangement. It had, in the previous iteration of their relationship, been a raw deal.

Sensing that John's thoughts were turning towards the realm of overprotective, Sherlock grabbed the day's newspaper from the table, adding with some irritation "Oh, don't fuss - I was ready to leap off any instant."

John gestured fiercely as he struggled to find words, then plunked his tea-mug on the table, and said quite definitively, "You could have been killed."

Of course this interested Sherlock a great deal as a topic of conversation; without moving his eyes from the paper, he replied, "Evidentially."

John scratched his head. "Had you ever even ridden a motorcycle before you tried this crazy stunt?"

"In India."

John frowned. "That doesn't sound like a safe place to learn how to ride a motorbike."

"Who said it was safe? We traversed the highest pass in the Himalayas before the roads were open for the spring."

John took a moment to register the implications of this.

"It was an _adventure_ , John."

The doctor shook his head as he repressed his feelings of _oh how exciting that must have been_ and expressed a clear _harumph_ of disapproval, but he got up, nudged Sherlock's legs up, and snuggled himself beneath the detective, wrapping his jumper-clad arms around his lover's middle.

" _Addicted_ to adventure is what you are," said John with systematic annoyance, adding, "And who was _we?_ "

"A deeply respected yogi," said Sherlock quietly, and John remembered anew how long the three years break of their friendship had been.

John had not been previously told about Sherlock's encounter with a yogi.

"So, erm. Did you also learn to meditate while you were there, or just motorbike?"

Sherlock leaned back and breathed into John's ear, "Practiced, not _learnt_ meditation, John."

"Okay, _practiced_..." But John tried to imagine Sherlock and his spindly, fluid self sitting in lotus, and John, while he could imagine it very clearly, hadn't ever seen Sherlock behave in such a manner. "What are you talking about - I've never seen you meditate!"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, thumped back against John's chest with a huff, and dropped the newspaper over their legs. "My _Mind Palace_ , John!"

"Oh." John squinted a bit and realized that yes, that made sense. So he nuzzled his head into the crook of Sherlock's neck. "So what do they call that in yoga?"

"They don't. It's a _shamanic_ meditation practice."

"Uh-huh." That made more sense to John - and the first thing that came to his mind was that shamans were known in the medical community for using psychotropic plants such as datura to achieve their experiences. "Was...your gateway drug...something that was-"

" _No_ , John. If you must know, I spent a summer on an Indian reservation in my boyhood when Mycroft was in love with a Navajo poet."

John was starting to become fatigued of giving _what?_ faces.

"They met in a policy class at university and agreed that Big Government was the Best Government, albeit for different reasons. Though yes, I think that _was_ the summer I started using intravenous, but that's quite unrelated."

_Quite unrelated_ , John echoed with grim humor, deciding that indeed the two things probably were _very_ related. He would have probed more, but he was feeling rather tired and didn't want to get Sherlock and himself into an argument at near-bedtime, because inevitably, conversations about Sherlock's addictions devolved quickly. And they were in a comfortable place at the moment, besides.

Sherlock seemed to agree, as he sighed and closed his eyes and said, "So anyway, yes John, I do know how to ride a motorbike, and very well, thank you."

John said, "Okay," and tried to think of something else to say about the matter, but Sherlock interrupted his musings by suddenly wrenching himself out of John's arms, standing up, and throwing the newspaper on the floor.

"Would you like to go for a turn?"

John, startled, felt helpless to resist, but did for the sake of form. "It's almost midnight, Sherlock!" And they'd been _cozy..._

Taking this response as agreement, or else just not caring, Sherlock grabbed his damp-sleeved leather jacket and zipped it up. "Stop giving excuses based on the clock, John, you know they never work."

Knowing that he'd probably protest the same way if it were four in the afternoon same as if it were four in the morning, John got up with a recalcitrant _hmph!_ and padded into their bedroom to get his own jacket.

"I have work tomorrow, we can't be out too late," he said as he came back, hands in his pockets.

"Understood." Sherlock was yanking on the skin-tight gloves and looking at his reflection in the mirror, poking a bit mid-yank at his hair, which was affected a little by static. "What have you got in your pocket?" he added as John approached him from behind.

"Nothing special," said John, pulling Sherlock's scarf from his jacket-pocket, carefully draping it around his lover's neck in one and a half loops, as Sherlock was wont to do himself.

"Thank you," said Sherlock, and John wondered anew how the three years had changed the detective in such subtle ways. All was the same as before, but there were little differences as gentle and mysterious as _please_ and _thank you_.

And this feeling of appreciation, as it ebbed from him in a wave of happy delight as like seeing a geode sparkle in the sun, seemed to be noticed by Sherlock, too, who caught John's eye in the mirror and smiled.

They pounded down the darkened stairs two at a time, and soon were outside in the cool of the late spring evening, where Sherlock's motorbike, silver and gleaming in the serious moonlight, looked like it was smirking at them. John, with interest, approached it.

"Can two ride this thing?" he asked, and in response, Sherlock nodded, patting the seat.

"You'd be surprised." He paused. "The yogi was particularly instructive in some things aside from motorbiking, however," Sherlock said of a sudden, turning and closing the slight difference between the men, pressing his loin against John's in a way that made the good doctor almost shudder despite himself.

"And...what were these?" asked John, forcing himself to pay attention to his breath and not to the gentle, seductive touch of Sherlock's hands on his hips.

"First," Sherlock said as he dipped his head and pressed his forehead against John's, his deep voice just a decibel above unhearable, "he taught the man who thought himself fearless to accept and conquer fear.

"Second," he continued, his arms hugging the doctor closer to him, "he taught the man who thought himself loveless to accept and reciprocate love."

Whereupon Sherlock made a motion to kiss John, but seemed to change his mind halfway, and a look of humorous taunting came to his face that made John's lower member ache.

"Third, he taught the man who thought himself to be _always right_ to accept _not knowing_."

Both of them were, at this point, breathing heavier than normal, and John found that he was cornered, stuck in the space between the handlebar and the body of the vehicle, trapped by Sherlock, who loomed over him with the devious, glinting humor of a devil.

"So...he took your virginity?" asked John with some perplexity, which made Sherlock take a step back and double over with laughter that resounded in the narrow street.

"You're too much," said Sherlock after recovering his composure, "No, I speak of psychology. I meant to imply that from his teaching, I first realized that you might have _consciously_ reciprocated the feelings that I'd had for you - while it was obvious you had subconscious attraction from the start, I presumed it would not press further than your subconscious. And then I also realized that even if you didn't I should still go on and tell you how I felt upon my return - because that in and of itself might bring you to a conscious acceptance of your feelings."

"Ah," said John. "So it would have been all on me, then, if you'd not gone to India."

"Perhaps." Sherlock shrugged. "My inner teacher wasn't speaking too clearly at the time - everything he said had to do with oatmeal-colored jumpers and tea and England and service revolvers and blogging."

He said this deadpan, but a grin flared up on his face like a wildfire at a moment's notice, and before John could protest they were kissing deeply.

After some moments of this intimate interfacing, they did mount the silver steed and buzz around London. Sherlock had named the motorbike "The Boss" after some book he (with a blush) admitted reading about knights riding bicycles, and if John recognized the Mark Twain, he didn't say so.

John was too engaged to tease Sherlock about his reading of American fantasy fiction. He was too full of overwhelming delight, of exceptional pleasure, and of deep appreciation and honor at having been allowed a few more little glimpses inside the crystalline geode that was the private inner life of an evolving Sherlock Holmes.

* * *

If you want to watch a movie about an Indian yogi leading a motorcycle trip across the Himalayas...check out The Highest Pass which comes out this weekend (April 27) in Santa Monica and Pasadena, CA. I had the honor of screening it and meeting the composer and the producer a month ago.

Written for an LJ prompt - "I read that Benedict Cumberbatch rides a motorbike. I would love to read a story where after the fall, Sherlock keeps an eye on John while riding a motorbike round London,because the helmet and leathers provide an excellent disguise. Slash would be good, but I'll take gen! :) JJ" And as usual I kinda messed up because I read the prompt once, started writing, and forgot about what the focus was necessarily supposed to be for the plot. But seriously - I have fantasies about catching a glimpse of B.C. on his motorbike in the midst LA traffic. So a motorbike story was inevitable.


	4. Normal For a Moment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is really trying to behaving normally for John. Established relationship. Sexy.

"If I repent of anything, it is very likely to be my good behavior." - _Thoreau_

* * *

What was loving, what was tender, what was true where Sherlock was concerned?

John had long sought to find a line between the realities he couldn't accept and the social-construct ideals that filled him with longing.

John, in other words, wanted desperately to be _normal_ , but found that his life with Sherlock was as far from _normal_ as...

(...There was, in fact, no comparison.)

In many respects, Sherlock made all of John's reality. No more space could the sun, moon, and stars themselves take up in John's life.

Sherlock's movements being so much like a planet's made it all the more unconscienceable, to some extent, for Sherlock to be indifferent to the solar system.

But that indifference was one example of how he deftly avoided fulfilling the dictates of public tyrants; Sherlock was mastered only by his private opinion.

An idea of _normalcy_ had no place in a reality with Sherlock. So the more John struggled to retain this unachievable identity, to live up to what he'd always said of himself - that he was a _normal_ , unextraordinary person who had nothing intrinsically special about him, who was in fact rather boring - the less grasp he had on this identity.

The more he insisted he was normal, the less he felt he actually was.

One primary barrier to his ability to reach normalcy: Sherlock.

Sherlock was, among other things, a lunatic, a genius, an infuriating bastard, and, more distressingly, not a _woman_ , which fact gave John some difficulty for a long time given the feelings that Sherlock inspired within him.

Because these feelings that Sherlock inspired within him were of a quality that John knew were deeply inappropriate for the _normal_ _heterosexual person._

Which really was perhaps the crux of the matter - _normalcy_ meant, in John's paradigm, _not being gay_ , and the more he insisted on his being normal...well, he told himself later, it was actually a rejection of his homosexuality through metaphor.

But that was later. For a long time, the only way he could reconcile the tension between his ideal of _normalcy_ and his definitely _not normal_ reality was by rejection the aspects of his reality that didn't fit his conceptualization of normalcy.

It was for this reason that he concluded that Sherlock was not the kind of creature that John's heart ached for.

This conclusion lasted only until Sherlock was gone. Then Sherlock was ALL that John could think of wanting.

Normalcy, when it finally returned to him, was a damnable unfortunate thing. He'd forgotten how much he actually had feared normalcy when his reality was _not normal_.

Now that his world was _normal_ , the grass looked so much greener on the other side.

There was nothing less he wanted to do than lead a life of quietly desperate _normalcy_.

But then! Lo! A miracle! Sherlock was back, and John barely had time to realize this before he let himself be caught up in the flow of things once more.

Caught up in a new way, too, that hadn't been part of the flow of things before - as their bedsprings could testify.

John had relinquished _most_ of his hold on the ideal of normalcy - thus allowing this natural progression of things to happen.

Now it had been a year - _had it_ been a year? that was amazing - and catapulting from exhilaration to frustration was a daily event, increasing force as the dynamic of his relationship with Sherlock grew to have greater significance.

There was no denying Sherlock's brilliance or the importance of Sherlock in John's life; it was too much a given. But there _were_ moments that John still toyed with his favorite myth of _normal_ life being a happy life.

He no longer associated _normal_ with _heterosexual_ ; his worldview had become more complex with the time Sherlock stayed away.

Moreover, it wasn't even that he wanted his private life to be _normal_ \- he had conquered his own ego's resistance to being _not normal_. He had embraced being _not normal_ with Sherlock for most of the time.

However, he still considered _normal_ to be somewhat important in the public sphere.

Particularly when dealing with witnesses, victims, family of victims, the police force, and - oh lord - their _fans_.

John felt incredible loathing every time he had to apologize, apologize, apologize for his lover, in a variety of contexts.

It didn't help that scandal left a long shadow in the public sphere, since good news was so much less likely to travel as far as bad. The people of England's fascination with abomination was not counterbalanced by a pervasive good-willed hearkening spirit akin to the angel Gabriel.

It made the problem worse when Sherlock was quick to take the bait of people who diminished his intellect due to their ignorance - or downright dismissal - of his formal acquittal.

Initially fighting on Sherlock's behalf with the fierce frenzy of Mercutio on behalf of Romeo was exhilarating, but even an old army doctor could be worn down.

Particularly when fighting _for_ Sherlock wasn't always the most appropriate response to a situation that Sherlock had already made bad.

People like Lestrade and Donovan and even _sixteen-year-old fangirls_ at the convention for their BBC documentary (concisely called _Sherlock_ ) were telling John: "Control your boyfriend."

Oh, and Mycroft was being a bit pushy on that account as well, but he'd always loved to exert power over the only individual that he regarded as having a better connection to his brother than he did.

As if John had any control in his relationship with Sherlock whatsoever. _Submit to Sherlock_ was almost his guiding mantra. Which wasn't _normal_ at all or perhaps even healthy, but John had long thrown out any conventional wisdom that might convince him to do anything about it.

But with the expectations of the world becoming a nuisance, his vision of _normalcy_ held greater allure.

 _If Sherlock was normal, I wouldn't be having to do this_ , became a constant thought as they interacted with the outside world.

And he apologized, and apologized, and apologized, because Sherlock was frequently rude and biting to people without cause. Not more frequently or more harshly than was usual for him, really, come to think of it, but now that he and John were lovers...

...now people thought John could somehow make Sherlock fit the model of normalcy that _they_ wanted in their lives.

Perhaps it made it easier for them to cope, to view Sherlock as something that was _not normal_ and needed to be controlled by someone who was _more normal_ , e.g. John.

It meant that to some extent when Sherlock called them idiots, they weren't actually deserving of the title, because the person who had called them idiots was himself _uncontrollable_ and _not normal_.

If Sherlock was _not normal_ then his assessment of them being idiots was invalid.

Therefore, it was more of a self-preservation tactic, to call upon John and blame him for Sherlock's lashing-out behavior.

John was Sherlock's keeper, and if the uncontrollable Sherlock caused trouble, then that was the keeper's fault, because it was his job to contain the animal.

And John had _not_ signed up to contain Sherlock. His was a voluntary association _only_ , but no one seemed to respect that possibility, because why would anyone volunteer to care for such a wild creature as the _not normal_ Sherlock?

The latent assumption must have been that John had a masochistic streak and wanted to be a martyr for being with Sherlock. Because John was so obviously _normal -_ he clearly didn't deserve to put up with the _not normal_ Sherlock.

No one really bothered to question what it was that John might be getting out of their relationship - it was assumed he was the benefactor, the sane one, who had control.

This conflict between the reality of his experience and the ideals superimposed upon him became so oppressive that John found himself avoiding situations where he might otherwise need to provide damage control.

Which, primarily, meant he was essentially avoiding Sherlock in public.

There was only so long this could go on unnoticed by the great detective, however. He relied so heavily on the phrase that he'd be _lost without my blogger_ that John wondered if it actually might be true.

* * *

One afternoon, Sherlock turned a seductive pose on the couch into a full-fledged discussion about their relationship without so much as a syllable of transition.

"You haven't been around lately."

John, as usual, pretended not to understand, even though his intuition told him that his ruse was over very quickly. "What are you on about?"

"You left an unsolved crime scene today."

"Yeah, well, I got a call from the clinic." The excuse was mere convenience. John's primary motive was to escape the inevitable confrontation with the victim's father, a sneering, grandiose owner of a small business who thought his daughter's death deserved the media (and free publicity for his store), minus Sherlock Ruddy Holmes for whom he vocalized much disrespect.

Sherlock scoffed and tightened the lanky legs and arms that ensured John's bondage for the duration of the conversation. "That's not the real problem," he said. "Talk."

John was reluctant to 'talk,' mostly because he didn't want to just come out and say _Sherlock I'm sick and tired of cleaning up after the messes you make_.

However, after some very compelling demands whispered in his ear, John's resistance waned.

"Can't you...can't you just be _normal_ for once?"

Sherlock's eyes were sharp.

"What do you mean? Don't you like the way I am?"

And there John saw the timid puppy beneath the crocodile, utterly shocked and taken aback by John's opinion, receptive and willing to do anything, _anything_ to keep John from disapproving.

To keep John from _leaving_ , which was, ultimately, as he'd discovered through careful digging, what Sherlock feared most.

As he looked into Sherlock's eyes, which were as bright as dying stars, John said, " _I do_ ," with emphasis. He also pressed his lips against Sherlock's, which were turned over each other and pressed tight together in what may have been consternation, what may have been annoyance, or what may have been an attempt to prevent them from trembling. "But-"

"-I thought your...I thought it was unconditional," said Sherlock with fierceness, not able to vocalize the word _love_ in the tension of the situation. His brows were furrowed and his eyes were narrowed and his face was pinched with _not knowing_.

"It _is_ ," said John quietly. He knew how tricky a territory this was to navigate. "I love you the same unconditionally. I'd just find it a little easier to _be_ loving if sometimes you made an effort to be...more polite."

Sherlock's response to this was guarded. "You'd prefer your privacy in the shower, then?"

_Oh, Sherlock._

His habit of coming in the bathroom when John was occupied therein was something that only made John a little annoyed, mostly because Sherlock's voice was garbled by the sound of water in John's ears. And because John felt he had to make a show of being annoyed that his partner couldn't be bothered to respect the usual bounds of privacy - but that was all it was, was a show.

For John took inordinate delight in the fact that Sherlock _noticed_ when John wasn't there and _took action_ to change that fact.

It was a lot better than the days when John would return home from Tesco's to discover Sherlock had been in deep conversation with an imaginary John for an hour.

"Oh, Sherlock," he said, wishing there were words adequate to express all this with a conciseness that wouldn't leave the detective bored. "No. I mean with...with other people."

"Oh."

"Our language doesn't transcend the bounds of our...our bubble, if that makes sense."

Sherlock seemed inclined to make no reply.

"So just...be _normal_ with other people, at least in the superficial respects, if you would? I just...hate to have to apologize for you. It really ticks me off."

Sherlock nodded, eyes closed. "I understand," he said with gravitas, and then his eyes opened, and a smile of a strange quality emerged on his face. "Shall we get on with it, then?"

"Get on with-?" John began, but was consumed mid-word by an answering, ravishing kiss.

* * *

Sherlock's personality was much like a volatile chemical substance - adding one new element, no matter how minor or how pure, changed the consistency of the fluid altogether.

And so it was after that conversation - Sherlock was irrevocably transformed, John could immediately tell, but into what, he wasn't certain.

Their shagging was as usual as such a thing with Sherlock could manage to be, and the sleep that followed was warm and comfortable.

The morning dawned and John realized he hadn't had such an undisturbed sleep in a long time; Sherlock had apparently not moved the whole night, but was staring at John the next morning, alert and clearly bored.

"What are you still doing in bed?" John asked, swallowing as much of his morning breath as possible while feeling a yawn creep up his throat.

"Didn't want to wake you by getting up," Sherlock said with a cheerful bounce in his voice, and with a peck of a kiss on John's forehead, the detective fairly leaped from under the comforter and bounded into the living room, the slight amount of fat on his bare buttocks quivering as he jumped with the energy of a gazelle.

Feeling old, John laughed and stretched out the kinks of sleep in his muscles before padding to the shower.

A quarter-hour later, wrapped in towel, John emerged, needing some clean pants from the laundry basket left in the kitchen. Sherlock was in his dressing-gown (but nothing else) and was engaged in making tea and toast, of all things.

"This is a pleasant surprise," said John, and took a sip from the glass that Sherlock pressed into his hand. "And is this orange juice? Where'd you-"

"-Mrs. Hudson's fridge. She won't miss it."

John looked at his partner with surprise. "Did you go down there looking like-"

"-She's not there today, John, she received a letter from Florida in yesterday's post, and like always when she gets one of those she goes to Winchester to take out her aggression about her ne'er do well son on her sister."

John just shrugged with a laugh. "Oh. Well. Thanks." He finished the orange juice and saw, to his interest and some dismay, that a good amount of orange juice had been appropriated to the latest dismembered human body part in the house.

"Acid test," said Sherlock without prompting, without looking at John except through his peripherals.

"I'm going to dress," John said, patting Sherlock on the shoulder, feeling vaguely like a scientist who had at last communicated with creatures from another planet.

In producing a modicum of human decency. Sherlock had proven himself a quick study, it seemed.

Some time later, Sherlock was engaged in _writing_ , of all things. Furiously.

Surprised and curious, but not enough to say anything, John sat and opened his laptop, cradling his second cup of morning tea in one hand.

Whereupon Sherlock stood up, walked over, and deposited what he'd been writing on John's keyboard. It was actually legible.

"I took the liberty of outlining the case to facilitate a smoother, more complete blogging account," said Sherlock with a shrug.

What was more amazing to John was that Sherlock hadn't thrown the piece of paper at him, but actually gotten his lazy arse up and _given_ it to him.

"Th-thanks," said John. He wondered if wine would spout from the ground if he stabbed it with a stick - only a demigod could have tamed Sherlock, he felt.

"Let me know when you're ready to go out - received word from a source about something that might hold our attention for at least a few hours."

"Go get some clothes on and I'll be ready immediately," said John, standing to find his shoes.

Sherlock gave his partner a _really, John?_ glance - how _dare_ John imply that he'd go out without trousers on - but flounced off to his bedroom without a word.

* * *

"So, what do you think - ought we go with the white with the blue trim or should we go with the jewel-tone set?"

 _God, what is going on?_ John was thinking to himself. Because the pair of them were standing in the dishware section of Harrods, apparently killing time by pretending to be interested in the sale.

But they'd been there for an hour, with no sight of a mysterious rondez-vous of any sort, and John was very bored.

Sherlock, however, seemed to harbor some secret thrill for this pottery, because he was going on at length about the dinnerplate sets as if they were the Chinese vases he adored so much.

"-I don't know that they need to match the wallpaper as much as they need to match the furniture, though," Sherlock was rambling, "and the jewel tones would suit the furniture color scheme rather better..."

He was almost more neurotic than usual.

"Sherlock," John interrupted, "what are we doing here, exactly?"

"I've got a coupon," said Sherlock, clearly pouting. "Twenty percent off. Inclusionary of sale discounts. Not to be passed up when we so badly need new plates and things, John."

"What's wrong with the mish-mash we've got? Are you planning on having the King of Somewhere I Don't Care About to dinner anytime soon? I'm rather fond of the motley-"

He then realized what he was saying.

"Sherlock, point is - _why are we here_?"

"A very good question that eons of philosophers and high priests and mythwriters have struggled to understand," Sherlock answered evasively, then his eyes widened. "Oh, look, John! A special on china teasets!"

"What's wrong with you today?" asked John, but received a quizzical glare in response.

"Do you need any assistance?" asked a boring, mousy-looking saleslady who smiled at the pair with faltering grace as they passed.

"No, thank you very much," said Sherlock, adding, "But I simply love the color you're wearing, by the way. It suits you."

"Thanks!" The girl's smile became a little less ambivalent, and her hand came up to tug at her hair in an unconscious invitation despite John's attempt to communicate _he's mine_ through his eyes.

* * *

Some time later, the boys were looking to go home. John began to look around for a cab to hail, but Sherlock was trotting ( _trotting?_ but indeed he was, there was no other word for the peculiarly cheerful, quick gait that was brief enough to afford John a decent chance to keep up) in the direction of the dark, grimy stairs of an underground station just around the corner.

"Um, Sherlock?"

The last time John remembered Sherlock's taking the tube had been when drenched with pig's blood and bearing a harpoon.

Sherlock hadn't liked that experience very well.

"What are you waiting for? We don't need a _cab_ ," said Sherlock with altogether far too much good-will in his jeer. "So expensive! Let's be economical. And save the planet while using London's most consumer-friendly transport service. Take the underground. We'll be there in two shakes of a lamb's tail."

"You needn't write a bloody advertisement, of course I understand the merits of taking the tube," said John with some irritation.

"Well, let's go then," said Sherlock, and tapped John with a sudden, "Race you!"

With a sigh of relief - _that_ was the first thing Sherlock had said today that was familiar, _Race you!_ \- that turned into a deep inhale for oxygen, John took off in a sprint, leaping deftly across the sidewalk, weaving between dazed members of the crowd, feeling the exhilaration of running and barely not bumping into people and feeling the wind against his face and the steady thumping of his feet against the stone sidewalk...

And then he arrived at the dingy stairs of the underground station, and he doubled over to catch his breath, noticing that for once he'd won - Sherlock was nowhere yet in sight.

Nowhere yet in sight.

Nowhere yet.

Nowhere.

 _Oh blast_.

John, still breathing hard after his half-mile dash and feeling his fingers sausage-thick and tingling with blood circulation, he tapped a simple _?_ to Sherlock.

And just as he did, there came the detective, looking somewhat sheepish, glued to his phone, texting furiously.

"Wouldn't you know, I caught my shoe-lace in the stones and fell flat on my face," said Sherlock, who proceeded to text a photograph of the incident to John.

"Um. You-" John was about to protest, _if it was an accident why is there a picture?_

"-Tourist couple in the foreground, they messaged the photograph to me after helping me up. Seems I spoiled a pleasant view."

To which John didn't know how on earth to respond, so he just laughed. Painfully.

Sherlock had never _tripped_ in his life, by John's recollection; Sherlock was a cat. If there hadn't been picture proof, John would have thought it was a strange machination on Sherlock's part for the sake of an experiment.

Well, who was to say it _wasn't_ , actually? The man had done stranger things for science.

"Oh. Well, it's not as though I couldn't do with the exercise," said John with an attempt at levity, and at balance. Sherlock was always complaining that he was getting fat, and it was a legitimate complaint.

Which made Sherlock's next sentence more confusing.

"Oh, _Joh_ _n,_ don't tell me you're self conscious about your _body_ , of all the ridiculous things!"

_...what?_

"You're not _fat,_ you silly goose. What on earth makes you think you specifically _need exercise_? If you're happy and healthy, that's all that matters, innit?"

Sherlock's voice had, mid-conversation, assumed a cooing, soft Northern accent that was deeply bewildering to John.

So he looked Sherlock in the eye and saw a twinkling there that revealed Sherlock was laughing inside, despite a long face.

"You're weird today," said John, not breaking eye contact, "and I don't know why, but I do know that it's weird. So stop it."

"Why, what's wrong?" Sherlock's facial muscles all bespoke concern, but the quality of his eyes gave his act away until they too glazed over with overwhelming _earnestness._

 _"You know!"_ said John, turning and stomping down the stairs two at a time.

"Is it- oh dear, John, mate, I'm dreadfully sorry, I just assumed- oh dear God, assuming always makes an ass out of you and me, doesn't it..."

Sherlock was _prattling_ of all things, and John was just simply pissed off at this, because Sherlock was having altogether too much fun with whatever _this_ was...

* * *

Ignoring him for the duration of the tube ride was a Herculean feat.

"Have you talked to your sister lately?"

It was an ordinary enough question, but that was rather the problem - it was _Sherlock_ asking it.

Sherlock, who consistently forgot John's girlfriend's names and sometimes forgot that John even had a sister, because the fact frequently got pushed into the recycling bin of his mental hard drive.

"She's fine," said John, hunching down into the seat and brooding mercilessly, not looking at Sherlock.

"Oh. That's good," said Sherlock, then began fiddling with the buttons of his coat until he thought of another question to break the silence. "How's my brother?"

"Oh come _off_ it!" insisted John, resolving not to answer any further mundane questions, because he was so certain Sherlock was playing some absurd game with him.

Sherlock was _smarter_ than that - why was he lowering himself to such mundanities?

"Well, it's a perfectly honest question - you're seeing him Thursday next, yes? I know because he texted."

"Texted you or texted me?" asked John long-sufferingly. There were no secrets between him and Mycroft - at least communicated in text - to which Sherlock was not privy.

"I admit I looked at your phone," said Sherlock with more shame in his voice than he ever was wont to express. Ever. "I hope you'll forgive me."

"Shut up," said John with such vehemenece that the old couple across from them looked at each other askance.

"Does that mean you do or don't forgive me? I wasn't snooping, I promise - it was just an accident."

John closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose without answering.

"Please, John? Please forgive me?"

"Oh, for God's sake. Yes. I forgive you. Now leave me be."

"I love you," said Sherlock.

That definitely made John look at his partner with wide eyes. Sherlock - saying, so clearly now, in public, without hesitation, words that he couldn't bear to say in the dark after they'd been making love for hours?

"I love you," repeated Sherlock, but there was a quality of disingenuousness in his voice that made the words painful to hear.

He didn't mean it. He was playing a part. What part, John wasn't certain, but he didn't like it at all.

"I love you," said Sherlock again, and it was almost singsongy how he proceeded with, "I love you, I love you, I love you!"

He paused. "John? Do you love me?"

 _Of course I bloody love you_ _,_ John was on the verge of saying, his sadness at hearing these special words tossed so carelessly around, bouncing them against the walls of the subway train, testing them out in front of other people with a false alacrity that was so _not Sherlock_.

It was like he was dealing with an insecure teenage girl.

He couldn't bear to give a dignified reply, and was further confirmed in his frustration when Sherlock, throat tightening, said to the old woman across from them - "I like your scarf, m'am. Purple suits you very well."

"Why, thank you," said the old woman, awkwardly, and then John heard the noise of a plaintive sniffle from his seat-mate. "Why, what's the matter, dear?" asked the old woman with all of the reserved indignant anger of a mother hen who's been watching her daughter be pecked into place.

In his peripheral vision, John saw Sherlock glance at him once, twice, and lean forward across the aisle tremblingly. "Can...can I ask you a bit of advice?" he asked of the old woman.

The old woman made her man budge over, resolutely, and patted the seat next to her.

Whereupon Sherlock picked himself up and sat next to her, whispering all sorts of things in her ear, and she nodded grimly and glared unhesitatingly at John.

As if it were John who had _done_ something.

No, he was just reacting to Sherlock's doing something to _him_.

And he was furious.

But then the old woman and man had to get off the train, and the woman scribbled her skype address on a piece of notepaper, patted Sherlock on the head (and he looked up at her as she stood above him with the adoration of a pupil for a great teacher) and told him she'd talk to him later.

And then as soon as they were gone, Sherlock - _reluctantly?_ \- sat down next to John again, and leaned onto John's shoulder in an unusual physical display of affection.

John really hoped that the charade would end, _now_.

There were auspicious signs - deep sighs of reflection and, perhaps, regret, a twisting of the hands that signalled agitation before a big, uncomfortable revelation, a labored breathing, the click of esophagus as Sherlock swallowed in preparation to speak...

"Well, John, here's a question I've been mulling over," said Sherlock, and his voice sounded a little bit returned to usual, without the inflections of neuroticism and overwhelming anxiety that had tainted it all day. "It's rather an important question, I think - but I want to hear what you think. Please be very honest. I don't want to cause undue conflict just because of some slight differences we may have in our opinions concerning this."

"Okay, what is it?" asked John, deciding to close his eyes against whatever great and important thing it was Sherlock had to say.

"Again, I wish to stress the importance of being completely honest with me - whatever it is you think, I want you to come right out and say it. No beating about the bush."

"Okay...?"

Thereupon Sherlock took a deep breath, fortifying himself against a plunge into waters of unknown depth, and said:

"So should we have gone with the blue trim or the jewel tones?"

John felt so abused and bitter that he couldn't help but laugh with anger. "Oh. Oh. Oh! You think you're so funny, do you?"

"No, I'm being perfectly serious - I'm opting to go back and get the jewel toned ones, which go so much-"

"-No. Sherlock, I'm not doing this anymore."

Whereupon John resorted to clapping his hand over Sherlock's mouth.

This was a mistake because Sherlock, being clever of mind, was altogether far too witty for his own good, and couldn't stop his tongue a'wagging in the best of circumstance.

In these circumstances, when Sherlock's favorite mode of expression was thus imperiled, John's blockade elicited a deeply sensual tonguing of the hand.

Sensual enough that John had to pull Sherlock halfway onto his lap in an attempt to conceal a very obvious boner, and this made John even more irritated and angry no matter how innocent Sherlock appeared.

"I think- did I lose my wallet?" asked Sherlock in a harried way as they arrived at the station nearest their Baker Street abode.

"The fuck you did," said John, irritated to distraction, "it's in your coat pocket."

"No it isn't," said Sherlock, whereupon John, in his haste to get off the train withdrew the wallet from the pocket himself and shook it at Sherlock. "Get off me and give me your coat."

The erection was far from disappearing, and the more John tried to will it away, the more it remained steadfastly obvious. Having Sherlock on his lap really hadn't helped the state of affairs much.

Instead of behaving like a child, at least Sherlock had the decency to shrug off the coat without a word and drape it around John's shoulders. Frontway facing back, but it would do for the moment; it was supposed to be a tool for concealing anyway, even if it did look a little odd.

"Thanks," said John gruffly, and they fled the subway train a second before the doors sealed shut.

"So, would you like to do something about it in the bathroom, or shall we just hurry home?" asked Sherlock with such straightforwardness that after a day of convoluted sentiments, John was immensely relieved.

"Um. Home."

Which meant that Sherlock spent five minutes arranging the coat 'properly' on John.

 _Ugh_.

He just bit his tongue as Sherlock fussed in a way that was completely foreign to John, adjusting the belt and pulling at the shoulders and trying to make something so clearly suited for a much taller man look passable on John.

"It's a sixty-second walk to the flat," John said by way of concluding the experiment, which left Sherlock going _ahem ahem_ in embarrassment and then, arm in arm ( _?_ was John's response to that!) they walked to their place of living.

It was a quarter past noon at that time, and as soon as they walked in the door, John threw himself on Sherlock's couch and snarled at his beloved. Whereupon Sherlock started laughing uncontrollably.

"Okay, you've made your point, Sherlock," said John with a huff, "and you know it." He peeled off the coat and threw it on the table. "Now this..." (he referred to the obtrusive aspect of reality that was most insistently nudging at the front of his trousers) "is your fault - you mend it."

"Indeed, I will," said Sherlock, and all of a sudden he was his old self again, "But first I'll make us some tea."

"No, _now_ ," said John with a childishness that surprised him.

"Tea," replied Sherlock with a curt amiability that was distinctive of him. _Sherlock_ humor. _Normal Sherlock_ humor. "You're on my couch, by the way," he pointed out as he went to the kitchen and started, in his hyperactive way, throwing together the things necessary for tea.

"You're making tea," replied John, and immediately started to laugh. "This makes no sense."

"Doesn't it?" said Sherlock from the other room.

"Not really," replied John.

"It's what you said you wanted," replied Sherlock as the kettle began to boil.

* * *

They were once again in bed, warm and comfortable in their places alongside each other.

"What did you mean, this was what I wanted?" asked John.

"What, you didn't lay there like a spoilt child and demand I suck-"

"-No, before. After. I mean. God."

John closed his eyes and tried to think of things like ceiling wax and cabbages and kings. He was still a little woozy from the delight of _existing_ in the way they'd been for the past hour.

"I mean, you said something like I wanted you to do what you were doing all day."

"So concise, John, you should be the next Poet Laureate."

"Thanks. So what was the point?"

"A test of a hypothesis."

John knew it had to have been scientific to some extent. "So what was the hypothesis?"

"That if I acted like a _normal_ human being, you'd not be pleased as punch."

"Really." John had to smile into the pillow nearest him. "You call what you were today _normal?_ "

"Granted, I was imitating behaviors that were specifically chosen to make my point, and modifying the form of these behaviors to fit the situations that were available to me."

"Okay." John nodded. "I get it. You don't want to be unauthentic. And being _normal_ is inauthentic to you."

"Precisely."

Though as John mulled over it, he couldn't help but feel that Sherlock had crossed a line.

Saying _I love you_ for the first time on the underground in front of strangers and at the same time making John look like an abusive boyfriend - that seemed particularly needless even in the context of proving a point.

"Are you going to talk to that woman on Skype?" asked John, surprised at how jealous he sounded.

Sherlock laughed awkwardly in the dim afternoon light that came through the blinds. "That was a job for Lestrade. She's a significant member of a child prostitution webring. The account she gave me has already been linked to illegal activity; a positive ID needed to be made, and that was caught on the CCTV on the train."

This provided little solace for John, however, who felt even more used than before.

"I think you know you went rather over the top there, though, Sherlock."

"It worked, didn't it?"

_Will caring help save them?_

Sherlock's machine side kicked in less frequently than it had in days of old, before the Fall, but it made it no less shocking or painful when it did emerge.

"What you said - it wasn't fair." John could barely bring himself to vocalize how angry he really was about it.

"What did I say?"

Sherlock seemed genuinely puzzled, but John really hoped he might understand without it being spoon-fed, because really, Sherlock was an adult and ought to be able to figure out this sort of thing without help.

"You just kept repeating it, like it was meaningless," said John, and then, with a whisper of breath, John heard Sherlock gasp a little bit.

"Oh," said Sherlock, and said nothing more than a second, "oh."

" _Oh_ is right _,"_ said John, "and it was really, _really_ hurtful that you could say _I love you_ over and over again nilly-willy in an _act_ without being able to say it in the privacy of our own bed without reservation."

"Don't think of it that way, if you can," said Sherlock, but his voice reflected only the slightest amount of resistance - resistance that hid a deepening sense of shame. "It's not...it's not like that."

The most careful and reverent of kisses was placed on John's forehead, and Sherlock gently twined their hands with the sweetness and steadiness of creeping jasmine on an arching arbor. John closed his eyes.

"I do love you," said Sherlock, with breath heavy on John's cheek. "How many times did I say it on the train?"

"Five?" asked John, not that he'd counted in particular.

"Then..." Sherlock paused, took a deep breath, and placed a gentle kiss on John's left ear. "I love you."

Without disrupting John in his repose, Sherlock moved himself up a bit and kissed John's other ear, whispering with heat that tickled John's ear-hairs, "I love you."

John's eyelashes danced like daffodils as Sherlock kissed his partner twice more, once on each closed eyelid. "I love you. I love you."

Three more kisses, once on John's brow, once at the bridge of John's nose, and once at the tip of John's nose. "I love you. I love you. I love you."

Then even more lingeringly, Sherlock pressed his lips against the place where John's cheeks met his mouth on the left and right sides. "I love you. I love you."

Sherlock was trembling a little bit - being brave, but still trembling, just like he did when it was time for whatever shots John thought it necessary to prescribe at certain points, pretending he didn't want to wrench the syringe out of John's hand and administer it to himself so that he'd have control of the fluid entering his body.

So since John could feel that, he was surprised to feel his eyelids pressed open by Sherlock's thumbs, and he winced a bit as Sherlock's thumbnail pressed a bit too much into his eyelid.

"Sorry," said Sherlock in reference to the thumbnail. He seemed to want to make eye contact for this final iteration of the ritualistic cycle. "I love you."

Thereupon he kissed John in one of the more traditional places, squarely and passionately.

 _This isn't normal_ , John thought to himself, pressing his hand into the back of Sherlock's as he assisted in deepening the kiss. _Not normal at all._

 _And really, it's only fools who think I have any capacity of controlling my boyfriend,_ John contemplated as they further interacted, _for really, he's the one who's got full control of me_.

_That's the only kind of normalcy I like._

For it had occurred to him that normalcy didn't have to be an ideal - nor did it have to conflict with reality.

They could all be the same thing, if he cared to make them such.

* * *

Based on LJ prompt - Sherlock is _really_ trying to behaving normally for John (maybe on a date, or at home, or after pushing John too far), but his lack of understanding of social niceties means FAIL. Especially if John can see how hard Sherlock is trying and either rewards him for it, or finally says something like, "Seriously, Sherlock, I appreciate the effort, but I like you the way you are; just be yourself."

But...I kinda didn't refer to the prompt once I got the idea in my head SO the work actually got off-topic. So it doesn't really fill the prompt at all. (sadface) Okay, hope you like it nonetheless.


	5. The Directions of the Stars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I would like a story pre-fall where Sherlock and John sit outside and talk about the stars." LJ Prompt. Oneshot. Preromance. Post-Baskerville.

LJ Prompt: "I would like a story pre-fall where Sherlock and John sit outside and talk about the stars." - thewoman_76 on sherlockbbc's LJ post _Make Me a Monday Week 78_.

There might be more planets than stars here. Oh well. I tried!

Oh, and the joke is an old one, and not mine, but I read somewhere (Arianne Devere's blog? I really forget...) that a good stand-in for any Holmesian influence in the world culture pre-Sherlock would be Auguste Dupin, of Poeian origins, hence the adaptation.

* * *

"If...erm...if we'd known we'd be in this situation, we could have brought a tent," said John with a forced cheerfulness through which bled his usual _why me God_ melancholia.

This melancholia was as pervasive as the blackness of the outer space that threatened to swallow the brightness of the Milky Way.

But he was trying desperately to serve as a counterbalance to Sherlock, who was as grouchy as a comet denied entry into planetary orbit and kicking a tin can with every step as they aimlessly walked down the deserted, foreign dirt road.

Which road, incidentally, was as rocky and cold and desolate as the exiled planet, Pluto.

"Don't even know if we're going _towards_ Grimpen Village or _away_ from it," Sherlock growled, and it was clear from his irrationally high level of anger that the airborne chemicals to which they'd been exposed multiple times in the past few days still weren't letting his poor body alone. Excretion or no excretion.

Or maybe the problem was that he was experiencing extended withdrawal symptoms because of his past abuse. John wasn't sure how recently Sherlock had been a user – probably more recently than he cared to imagine, considering Lestrade's drug bust only a year prior.

Ah, but then again, that was the problem with being a star - everyone wanted to find _the reason that it shined_ without just accepting that perhaps the sole reason was an effort on the universe's part to try and make everyone's life-journeys a little brighter.

Because almost everyone wanted to be a star. But if that path to stardom involved something that was socially nonconformative, somehow that invalidated the star's legitimacy.

It was a lot easier to blot out a star than it was to make it change its color. And there were millions just like it, anyway, so what did it matter if that little irksome one was removed without a trace?

"Well, it's better to be on the road at all than to be wandering through the moor at night," John said, to which Sherlock just kicked the can into a knot of dense grass alongside the road and picked up his pace in an apparent attempt to get away from John's prattling.

He was reminded of the story of the constellation, Cancer, who, in an attempt to assassinate a hero, had hurtled into the sky when kicked by a distracted, disdainful Hercules who was battling the more dangerous many-headed Hydra at that moment.

"I heard a joke about camping, once," continued John as he trotted to keep up, "You mentioned that you've read Edgar Allen Poe."

"He wasn't exactly the most _jovial_ of writers." At which point, Sherlock's gloved hand moved up to flip his coat-collar, only to be frustrated in this because the collar was already turned, to which he groaned.

"Oh, no, the joke wasn't his, at least I don't think so," John went on, feeling for the moment like he imagined Molly Hooper must feel some days; trying to get a word in edgewise to Sherlock in a single-minded mood seemed to be the only occupation she had when he was around.

It was a wonder she'd fallen for the detective, particularly when there were so many girls who showed up dead on her table who'd passionately loved men who abused them.

It was a wonder that _John_ had fallen for the detective when he could see this so plainly, too, but then again he was a soldier, so he told himself that he could handle quite a lot of abuse.

It seemed that he couldn't resist it, actually.

Feeling like a dog who would be forever destined to chase a cat who would be forever destined to be uncatchable, he realized, incidentally, that was just the case of Laelaps and the Teumessian Fox, otherwise known as the constellations Canis Major and Canis Minor, respectively.

"It's about his detective, Auguste Dupin."

"What about him?"

Sherlock's seriousness almost made John forget that he was attempting, in very poor form, to tell a joke, so to prevent this from continuing to happen, John let the rest of the narrative gush out haphazardly.

"Well, as I heard it, Auguste Dupin and his friend – whose name I forget, incidentally – were going camping, and they pitched their tent under the stars and went to sleep. Sometime in the middle of the night, Auguste Dupin woke his friend up and said: 'My friend, look up at the stars, and tell me what you see.' And his friend replied: 'I see millions and millions of stars.' Dupin said: 'And what do you deduce from that?'"

"Dupin is supposed to have said 'deduce'?" asked Sherlock, a bit affronted, but listening.

John awkwardly backtracked. "I don't actually suppose that he would really say the word 'deduce' since I don't think anyone has ever used the word like you do, Sherlock."

"I should think not. I like to think of it as a personal quirk."

Indeed, Sherlock's mastery of deduction was as iconic as Neptune's double-headed trident, and just as empirical as the discovery of the god's namesake planet.

John blustered a bit nonsensically for a moment before continuing, " _Anyhow,_ so Dupin's friend said, 'Well, if there are millions of stars, and if even a few of those have planets, it's quite likely there are some planets like Earth out there. And if there are a few planets like Earth out there, there might also be life.' And Auguste Dupin said: 'My friend, what a brilliant but dull-minded conclusion.' And Dupin's friend asked, 'Why's that?' to which Dupin replied, coolly, 'It means that somebody stole our tent.'"

This made Sherlock stop in his tracks, and John stumbled in his attempt to follow his friend's movements.

"What?" asked John, noticing a self-satisfied smirk rising on Sherlock's face that decidedly _hadn't_ been there a moment prior.

"John, I've been remarkably stupid. Here. Do you have a light?"

With that, he sank down onto his knees in the damp dirt and began to scratch a series of circles and lines.

John got his cell phone out of his pocket - useless in all other respects since, as they'd tried several times before, no service was to be found in the area - and pressed a button so that it lit up.

"Turn up the backlight," commanded Sherlock, "and hold it."

"My charger's...it's almost..." John began, but as Sherlock furiously continued etching in the ground with his fingernails, he just shrugged and said, "You have five minutes, max, before the battery dies."

The light from the cell phone was as blue and ice-cold as that from Uranus overhead, but just a trifle more sufficient than the planet's rays.

"That's enough," said Sherlock without further comment, "Now shut up."

He was closing his eyes between the sketch-motions as he drew, and John realized, as he leaned and looked onto the drawing, that he was trying to recreate their movements from the past half-day.

Finally, there was a point at which Sherlock seemed to be drawing a blank, and he opened his eyes and looked at John.

"Do you remember, John, which way we took from the bed and breakfast – was it southeast or southwest?"

"I haven't the foggiest," said John, too quickly because suddenly he realized, "Oh. Well, we were heading towards the sun, so that would have been-"

"-Thank _you_ ," said Sherlock triumphantly, etching a last line and standing up with a sense of pride. "If I'd been with Hansel and Gretel..."

"Let's not get carried away," said John, examining the scratchings and thinking with awe upon Sherlock's ability to focus with such precision in his quests.

It was just as epic to witness him in his pursuit of the truth as it must have been for the Greek gods to watch Jason and the Argonauts pursuing the Golden Fleece so single-mindedly in their great and beautiful ship, a ship that became the enormous tri-part constellation Argo Narvis.

"So, at which end are we now?" John asked, squatting to read the crude but distinctly clear map.

"Here." Sherlock made the mark more clear with the toe of his shoe. "And _this_ is the road we're on now. Now all we have to do," he said, sinking onto the ground again, "is sit and wait for the moon to show us which direction is east and which direction is west."

"You didn't notice before?" asked John wonderingly.

"No, if you recall we've been wandering in densely wooded area surrounded by hills."

Well, it may have been densely wooded, but _John_ had noticed that the moon was sinking on their right-hand side, and had known this for some time.

It wasn't because he had eyes that gave meaning to the constellation Lynx, like Sherlock did.

He justknew how _important_ it was to know where one was at all times – his army training taught him to be constantly aware of the polar directions.

That was one of the great things about his time in the army - what he'd learned there gave him a stabilizing, Saturnian presence of mind, like rings around his middle, that balanced him at times of need.

"So," he said, chewing over the idea of telling Sherlock he knew which way they should go.

But then he couldn't help but think of the many times that Sherlock had argued _passionately_ against the importance of knowing the first thing about the solar system. Against, John presumed, even the practical notion of _noticing_ the position of the moon and stars at any given moment.

But he did notice Sherlock's current silence on the matter of _knowing the planets' movements_ and decided that this silence was as close to admitting to having been _wrong_ as Sherlock would get without being pressed.

John realized that if he pressed the matter, it would be the second time today Sherlock would have to admit that he was _wrong_.

And what better comeuppance for deliberately poisoning someone that one claimed to be a _friend_ of than to slowly draw out two such major confessions of failure in one day?

Friends were supposed to protect each other, like Jupiter of the night sky protected people who came under its influence.

He did momentarily consider the degradation of Sherlock's mood since their first such moment over the sachets of ketchup and brown sauce that morning, and knew the wiser choice was to wait at least until they made it back to Grimpen Village, or wherever it was they'd pass the night.

But Sherlock's clear narrow-mindedness and egotism seemed to make the choice on his behalf – instead of asking John for any ideas or even just for an opinion, Sherlock sat himself down on the side of the road, facing the moon, prepared to wait for the moon to make its movement pattern clear.

" _So_ , in a quarter of an hour we'll know exactly which way to go," said Sherlock over-confidentially, wrapping his coat tightly around him and puffing against the cold. "God, what I'd give for a cigarette right now."

It was because of this disregard that John decided to move the conversation to a direction that served to make his point.

It was a dangerous maneuver, perhaps as life-threatening as trying to navigate a space-ship through the craggy asteroid belt.

"I guess the movement of the planets is a rather _useful_ thing to notice," said John ambiguously, joining Sherlock in sitting down on the damp road. His legs were aching.

"Only in regards to navigation, or a crime relating to astronomy or astrology," Sherlock replied briskly, pressing his hands together and rubbing them for the warming effect of friction.

"I believe your _exact_ words on the subject, last we talked of it, were something akin to _If we went around the moon or round and round the garden like a teddy bear, it wouldn't make any difference!_ "

There was the bitterness of Mars, God of War, in remembering this conversation, for John, because Sherlock had dismissed so _much_ of what John felt was important, not just the blog, which John would grant any day was silly, but fundamental things that were cornerstones of daily life.

Like, _the solar system_. That was important to John, not for any describable or reasonable reason.

Perhaps it was only important to _him_ because Sherlock considered it so _unimportant._

"And then I said something pathetic and hateful and rude; do you want me to apologize for that, is that it?" asked Sherlock with some impatience that, perhaps, was masking insecurity.

"No, I'm not looking for an _apology_ ," said John, surprised that Sherlock would describe anything he'd ever said as _pathetic_ or _hateful_ or _rude_ or anything aside from _clever_ , but then again perhaps the many _clues_ that the universe had been giving the great detective of late were finally being processed.

Still, John wouldn't let himself get distracted from the main point, and he tethered himself to it as fervently as an astronaut Odysseus might tie himself to the Earth as wailing constellations of sirens floated past.

"I'm not looking for an apology at all," John continued, wishing he had a mariner's compass (aside from the practically useless constellation Pyxis above) to aid him in navigating these dangerous waters.

He took a deep breath. "Just wanting you to admit that sometimes the things that silly people put in their heads do turn out useful after all."

"Look, John: I remembered the theory – I remembered how to apply the theory – isn't that enough of an admission?"

"What theory?" asked John, "You mean concerning the earth going around the sun?"

The glare that accompanied the "Yes, of _course_ I meant _that theory_ " snarl was so juvenile, it was priceless.

"All right, I don't think most people would call that a _theory_ , but I'll grant you this, you _did_ remember it, Sherlock."

"How could I delete the information after arguing about it _twice?_ " Sherlock demanded, looking so put-upon to remember this information that he still obviously considered superfluous that it was almost unbearable for John to not laugh.

"You don't mean you _seriously_ wouldn't have known that without me telling you."

"Who knows!" Sherlock threw his hands in the air as if begging to be beamed up by a compassionate Scotty, or, more likely, by someone who came from a smarter planet.

_Interesting that he didn't think to delete the whole two arguments that he obviously remembered so well,_ John thought, and he wondered vaguely what might have made them non-delete-worthy, if Sherlock was really as good as he said he was about deleting the unnecessary trivialities that accompanied daily life experiences _._

Maybe, John dared to hopelessly hope, it had something to do with some secret appreciation of John as _more_ than a friend - some secret appreciation that would come to bear fruit that would ripen in an atmosphere ruled by a bright and brilliant Venus.

Sherlock then gave a frustrated sigh. "Why the hell can't the bloody thing _move on_ already?"

"So, it seems that I taught you something?" John asked, because that's what the crux of the matter seemed to be.

" _Yes_ , if you _must_ put it that way," said Sherlock in a hiss, staring at the moon with such intensity that he might just have been attempting to _will_ it to move.

"I will, then," said John with more self-satisfaction than was perhaps warranted. "Would you like to learn more things that may or may not be useful?"

Sherlock just gritted his teeth and looked peeved, as if he'd been told childishly that he was about to turn into a flying fish akin to the constellation Volans, visible overhead.

"If you don't say something, I'm going to just go ahead and tell you all I know about the stars and the night sky."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and sighed, but said nothing, which John took as a small victory for the cause of humility.

"Well," John said, thinking back, "I know the new moon was about two weeks ago, now, so what we're seeing at the moment is a waxing moon, probably it'll be full in five or six days."

Sherlock's returning grunt was far from encouraging, but he wasn't dismissing John yet, so the doctor continued.

"So just ahead of us, almost, a little to the east, is The Plough, and just below it, Ursa Major, and just above it, Ursa Minor. Do you see?"

"Where?"

Sherlock was reluctantly looking up, and John pointed. "Well, The Plough's easiest to see. It looks like a scythe or something, turned on its side, or...well, a plough. I think some people call it a drinking gourd or dipper."

"It's like connect-the-dots with a painting by Pollock. It requires the imagination of a child to see anything in the stars," said Sherlock scornfully.

But at least he seemed interested enough that he was paying attention, though his attention was far from encouraging of John's efforts. "In trying to see things that aren't really there, people are liable to forget what it actually is that they _are_ seeing."

"It's not just me," said John, wondering what Sherlock's implication was, but not too much because he was taking some amount of pride in being the didactic one for once. "This is ancient stuff, Sherlock."

"All the more reason that we should forget it and not let it bias our current perspective. _That_ is scientific stuff, John. How many researchers seek only to validate the work of their predecessors, blindly and passionately and without any attention to rigor or method?"

"I see it differently," said John, "what's the point of reinventing the wheel when you can advance so much farther once you already know about the basic form and function of a wheel?"

"That's _different_ ," said Sherlock grumpily. "Reinterpreting old data is very different from seeking out new data."

"But how can you seek out new data if you don't have a grasp of the data that's already been found?" asked John, feeling like he was arguing with a child at this point.

"You read the research journals and _figure it out,_ " replied Sherlock, getting tired of the argument too and standing up with great huffiness.

"I..."

John had forgotten where the metaphor had started and was not longer sure where he wanted it to end.

"You've lost track of the point you were trying to make. I win," said Sherlock very astutely, turning on his heel in the direction from which they'd come.

"What? Where are you going?" asked John, rising, shaking out the foot that had been falling asleep, and chasing after Sherlock, who was striding at a doubled pace.

"Grimpen Village, of course."

This necessitated a _what? Did the moon finally cooperate with you?_ comment from John, but they were now running into the darkness, and what with John's racing heartbeat and pounding lungs as he tried to keep time with Sherlock Holmes' gait, he couldn't squeak it out.

There was no need, however.

"Don't...try to be clever, John. It...it doesn't suit you," said Sherlock as they hurtled through the darkness. "I knew...from your syntax...that you knew our orientation...and sure enough you...you revealed yourself when you mentioned...the position of The Plough."

John's memory revisited that part of the conversation.

_...just ahead of us, almost, a little to the east, is The Plough..._

"Oh!" he gasped, though he hadn't meant to gasp it, "You're too clever. By half."

Sherlock didn't reply, but as the moonlight cast a beam through the trees a moment later, John saw the glistening of a self-satisfied smirk on his friend's face.

"Don't forget...it's _your_ fault we're out here in the first place," said John unnecessarily, "you with your...witty melodramatic comments...about seeing a man about a dog...which we never got around to anyway..."

"Oh, do shut up, John, you can't keep up if you're complaining so much," noted Sherlock, his voice a little warmer now that they weren't lost and now apparently able to look a little more on the bright side of life.

"Oh, you git," muttered John, just to be contrary, to which Sherlock responded with a bark of laughter and a spirited effort to pick up his pace.

Which meant that the only reasonable thing for John to do was stop and catch his breath and wait for Sherlock to do the same some steps ahead of him.

After all, it wasn't as if either of them had the indefatigable feet of Mercury.


	6. Duet for Violin and Cello in Bed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John are in bed with each other. Painstaking but terribly pointless fluff. Oneshot. Established relationship.

Their dinner had been cloudy tea and the whole box of lady-fingers while the rain had poured outside.

This set a precedent for a hot, sweet evening despite the weather.

Now they were wrapped around each other, their limbs slowly migrating into more comfortable positions as sleep began to impede their vision.

The blankets of Sherlock's bed had begun the evening in a mountain of fabric as snowy-white and dense and pillowy as a dollop of Devonshire cream, had spent most of the time during the evening ignored at the foot of the bed (until they dripped off onto the floor), and had now been appropriated to their highest purpose and were being drawn inch by inch, tug by tug, closer around the boys' shoulders.

All in all, it was a good evening, John thought, and he'd prevented them both from succumbing to the irritations that a foul day could breed even in the hearts of two people who loved each other.

Especially two people who were as easily bored as they.

Now they lay in bed, and John held his breath as he listened to the paltry, paltry, paltry noise of the rain, held at a distance by the staid, darkened complexion of the demure, foggy window.

As he listened to the raspy, raspy, raspy sound of Sherlock's breathing, as unpredictable and irregular as the sound of wind in a seashell, irregular perhaps just because Sherlock knew he was listening and liked to confuse John, to make John believe that even his breathing was unconventional, to confirm to John that he was a consistent believer in the idea that breathing was boring, to delight John because John liked to believe that Sherlock was extraordinary in every way.

As he listened to the flick, flick, flick of their coronary valves opening and closing, opening and closing, opening and closing, pumping blood through and regulating the flow and working as flawlessly and naturally and uninspiredly and dutifully as policemen moderating traffic at the streetcorner.

As he listened to the tiny, tiny, tiny scratchy sounds that Sherlock's fluttering eyelashes made on John's pillow, probably unconscious involuntary spasms of movement that indicated Sherlock's attempts to fight sleep and relish the closeness that they were sharing, closeness that was so new and beautiful and exciting and crystalline and delicious.

"Sherlock?"

John felt that his hoarse whisper, emerging from his bosom like a rumble from the heart of the earth, tore the gentle, heavy silence like an industrial meatgrinder taken to the black velvet train of the Queen of the Night. But Sherlock didn't respond as though he'd heard, so perhaps the eyelash batting wasn't from some purposeful effort to stay awake but from rapid eye movement as the great detective descended to a rare state of deep sleep.

John breathed a trembling, meaningful, longing, appreciative sigh that turned slightly into a belch, which made him smile because of the universe's inherent good-humor, never letting him take beautiful things like Sherlock too seriously.

In response, as a reward for not getting irritated at the realities of his body and accepting his status as an imperfect human being, the universe gave him a gentle second gift - Sherlock's body shifted, his head filling the gap between John's chin and chest, cheekbones nestling patiently against John's neck.

It was John's favorite place for Sherlock to be, because it seemed to confirm to him physically that there was some part of Sherlock that remembered and believed what John had said so many years ago - friends protect people.

Sherlock's being there, in that particular space, touching John in that particular way, made John feel so strong, so needed, so protective, so trusted, so desired, so loved, and yet so inadequate.

So, so, so human.

And it humanized Sherlock, too, to be there - his expression was one he would never have with his eyes open, an unconscious humility, an acceptance of all that John could understand that Sherlock could not, a request for help in the journey of developing as a human being, a submission to the whims of the universe.

Sherlock was at once glorious and frail, mythic and childlike, victorious and supportive, beautiful and awed by beauty.

He was a living paradox when he was awake, but sleeping he transcended the polar reality in which paradoxes exist and, in this transcendence, became everything and anything, no longer paradoxical but impossible to locate at any place on a spectrum because he was the spectrum in its entirety.

Even his body refused to be put into any category and insisted on being all categories.

His breathing, in its irregularity, had the consistency of violinists in an orchestra sustaining a single note for a very long time, each individual member varying his bowing so that not one of them had the same moment where they changed from up to down or down to up.

His eyelashes, in their flickering, had the effect of implying wakefulness while in the depths of unwakefulness, as gentle and subtle a dance between presence and unpresence of spirit and consciousness as the jagged glowing of fireflies in the twilight of a summer afternoon.

His heart's noise, in its steadfastness, had the ambiguousness of a tribal drumbeat, as steady and ever-present and unchanging and natural a tempo no matter if it was thumping at a funeral, a wedding celebration, or just in bed with John.

But all gifts from the universe have unexpected components – and the most relevant component now, John was beginning to realize, was that with the beauty of the symphony that was the sounds and feelings of Sherlock being so close, he was too overwhelmed to sleep.

Indeed, he was nearly breathless, daring scarcely to allow his fingers entrance to the forest that was Sherlock's rich, sweet-smelling hair, no matter how enticing it was as it gently glided a few millimeters across the underside of his chin with Sherlock's every breath.

Moreover, as wonderful as the flicking of Sherlock's beautiful eyelashes across the starched pillow was to listen to, it was getting to be like a paintbrush being jerked across a snare drum - soft, but just a little too noisy and unusual to let John submerge into the Morphean realms.

He was doing his best to ignore it, but perhaps the slight irritation he felt changed something about his body's chemical scent, and suddenly he felt and heard Sherlock's eyelashes flick open more purposefully than before.

"John?"

Chagrin at having disturbed the sleeping dove made John stay silent.

"Awake?"

John still didn't say anything.

"You're not able to sleep."

"Not really," whispered John in return. "It's all right though."

"You were listening."

John's smile was the one that usually accompanied his shrugs, but he specifically didn't let his shoulder make the movement to prevent Sherlock from slipping off his shoulder.

Well, no, there was a twitch of muscle nonetheless, but Sherlock glued himself to John like a limpet, his chin digging into a place that John was vaguely aware of being an acupressure point. It was a bit painful, but nice.

"Have you diagnosed me with gastrointestinal disorder?" asked Sherlock, and the difference between what Sherlock imagined John was listening to and the reality of what John was listening to was so vast that John couldn't help but laugh.

Not too heartily, though; it would be like sirens wailing down the street to laugh too loudly in that sacred space.

"No, congestive heart failure." He paused, realizing that was a rather horrible joke. "Thirty years away. Fifty if you start taking care of yourself."

"God. I suppose you'll be telling me I need to get a flu shot, next."

"No, but are your tetanus shots up to date?"

(A tense silence confirmed the worst.)

"Of course not. Silly question. First thing tomorrow, Sherlock. Doctor's orders. You can even administer boosters to me first, if you like; heaven knows, I go wherever you go, and am just as likely to crawl over a rusty nail exploring some musty basement somewhere."

"Fine. But when's the last time we were crawling anywhere but a bed, John?"

John took this pouty reply in stride.

"Never say never, Mr. Sherlock Holmes."

"I didn't say never," returned Sherlock, but his argument was becoming more and more silly as sleep addled his ability to formulate ideas. "Good night."

John kissed his partner on the cheek, patted him on the shoulder with a cheerful, "Goodnight yourself!" and closed his own eyes against the violet darkness, a darkness that was lightened only by Sherlock's alabaster skin and the whispering brightness of the moon through the smokey window.

Whether Sherlock's eyelashes would continue to flutter like moth wings in the night, John wouldn't know - for he succumbed to sleep, finally, as it draped its silken sheet over both the detective and the doctor.


	7. Stuck in the Neck

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pointless delicious fluff. Involving John's jumper. Very cozy. Established relationship. Oneshot.

The sleeve of his shirt was damp from where he'd let the water slosh out of an over-filled teakettle - too engaged in watching the neighbor's strange method taking out the trash to realize he'd been standing there with the tap on for a minute and a half.

His feet were cold and clammy no matter how much he tried to hide them under John's warm buttocks - John was actually complaining that he needed to put some socks on, but they were all currently serving important purposes in his sock index, so unless he appropriated a pair of John's, that wasn't going to happen.

The tea in his hand had not been heated to an adequate temperature; the mug wasn't even warm, and too quickly the water was growing cold, no matter how richly deceptive the color of the actual tea.

Even the slice of sourdough toast that John had presented to him was lukewarm, despite its delightfully-promising singed edges that told him John had been too lazy to use the toaster and instead used the open flame on the stove.

So what was he supposed to do but disturb John's reading of the newspaper by tucking himself inside his lover's jumper from behind, stretching it to unusual proportions to which it was unaccustomed but capable of conforming.

He breathed heavily into the place where John's shoulder-blades met, pressing his lips against the cotton button-down that was just so John and inhaling the scents that  
the fabric elicited.

"Sherlock, would you get out of my jumper, please?" asked the doctor, but his tone of voice was one that hid a laugh and a blush.

To which the great detective responded by discovering the collar of the sweater would allow his head to squeeze through, and soon his face was rejoined with the cold of the non-jumper atmosphere of the flat, and he could see them in the mirror across the room, a perfect two-headed John hydra creature.

"Okay, you're choking me," said John, pulling the collar with a free hand to allow himself an easier time of breathing. This meant that the back of the collar pressed into the nape of Sherlock's neck with a sharp tug, and his forehead jutted forward and knocked against the back of John's head.

"Ow," they said together, and Sherlock started laughing, John tut-tutting.

"Okay, that's enough," John said, and all of a sudden, like a turtle, he withdrew his arms and head into the jumper, and as he did he also raised the shoulders so that Sherlock's head slipped inside, too.

Tangled up inside, as they were, John twisted around to extricate himself from the clumsy situation, but ended up meeting Sherlock's delighted, laughing eyes.

So they kissed, just a little domestic pat on the lips, in the heat and dim light that was the tent of John's jumper.

And then suddenly John had ducked out of the situation, leaving Sherlock feeling like Charlie Brown at Halloween, peering between the heavy knit threads at John, who was folding the newspaper and getting up to get a new sweater, muttering grumpily despite the smile that was on his face.

"All your expensive cashmeres and yet you persist in stealing away my clothes," said John with good-natured scolding as he returned, sliding on a second jumper. "Why I ever put up with you..."

"I'm sure I don't know why, either," said Sherlock, letting John yank the collar down over his face so that he could see again like a normal person, even if he resisted putting his arms through the sleeves.

"Now look here," said John, wedging himself back into the place between Sherlock's astride legs that he'd occupied before. "There's been an accident up north that looks rather interesting."  
"Show me," said Sherlock, putting his arms through the sleeves at long last because he couldn't very well hug John closer to him if his arms were pinned.

And John leaned into the embrace, casually letting his finger point out the story in the paper that interested him.

Sherlock dismissed the interest of the story quickly with three possible theories and took a sip of tea from John's teacup when John shoved it in his face, a laughing effort to make him shut up and take a day off.

"Fine," he replied, "what's your theory?"

"I thought you'd never ask that question, ever, in the history of the universe," John replied thoughtfully, and embarked upon a hideously fanciful narrative that forgot some of the key details, but Sherlock couldn't bring himself to really mind, even when John ended his little spiel with, "You know? Actually leek soup sounds rather good right now."

"Later," purred Sherlock, "later. Don't you dare move."

"Why not? What if the phone rings?"

"If you get up, I'll be cold," replied Sherlock with the petty concern of a three-year old.

To prove his point, he pressed his cold nose against John's neck.

"Okay," said John, resting back against his lover once more. "I'm a bit cold, too."

He leaned forward to grab the television remote from the table, which made Sherlock whine like a puppy for a second, and leaned back again, turning on the droning newscast.

"Happy someday," said John, mostly to himself.

"What do you mean by that?" asked Sherlock, after puzzling over what this could mean for a moment or two.

"Well, a few months ago I was telling myself that _someday_ you'd actually have the patience to sit through a whole foreign film with me."

"And you think that day is today?" asked Sherlock with chagrin, since there really wasn't anything that frustrated him more than John's favorite movies.

"It won't be like _Last Year at Marienbad_ , I promise."

" _Fine_. But only because it's so cold."


	8. Muse on the Mind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John driving and listening to Muse as they leave Baskerville. Preromance. Oneshot.

They slammed the doors of the Land Rover in unison - just at the moment that Sherlock's fingers turned the key in the ignition and that John's fingers pressed the button to turn on the radio (to an 80s rock station).

With that, the duo sped away from the sleepy little Grimpen Village, Sherlock with his coat-collar turned up and John trying to pull off a pair of designer sunglasses.

"They really don't suit you," said Sherlock grumpily once they were safely on the main road.

Safe being a relative term, given Sherlock's propensity to take turns at twice the speed he ought.

"Well, it's not as if you wear them," returned John, grasping on the handle above the door without a thought to his time riding in the back of a military truck listening to shelling. He was

"True," acknowledged the great consulting detective, "they obstruct the peripherals."

"But you've got light eyes," returned John. "People with light eyes are more susceptible to macular degeneration as they age."

"It'll be a miracle if I make it past forty, I don't think macular degeneration is much of a concern," returned Sherlock.

This bleak thought that Sherlock saw his demise as so imminent at not even thirty years old was...

...it was really just _very_ bleak, John thought, and he turned to his friend, sliding the glasses down his nose so he could look over them.

"This had better not be-" he said, his voice full of warning.

"-No! Don't be ridiculous, John, you should know better. Suicidal ideation's for the _weak_."

Still, the way Sherlock was clenching the steering wheel and staring fervently, fascinatedly, fantastically straight ahead was disconcerting, and made John wonder if his friend's vehemence wasn't trying to convince _the listener_ as much as _the speaker_.

They had brushed too close against that kind of despair in the past twenty-four hours.

_No, Henry! No, no!_

Maybe something had been activated in Sherlock's psyche, even unbeknownst to himself.

"So, what then?" asked John, never one to let a touchy subject go if he could help. Unlike Sherlock, who preferred to let difficult things be forgotten and ignored and _deleted_ once they'd been said.

Sherlock's solemn face pinched into a scowl. "Don't tell me you've forgotten the incident at the pool."

"Oh. Well..."

In the hard gray light of day, especially after having had such a terrifyingly real (but illusory) experience of fear in the labs of Baskerville, John couldn't help but feel like Moriarty was as grave a threat as they'd believed at the time.

No, he decided as he closed his eyes against the sun as it poked briefly from the clouds in front of them, he just _wanted_ to feel like Moriarty wasn't a threat.

After all, it was easy to forget that there was a madman lurking in the shadows when dealing with all these different types of madness in this last case.

"Oh, look, a goldfinch," said Sherlock, absently looking out the window.

"Where?" asked John, leaning forward and craning his head, not because he cared overmuch about seeing the thing but because - well, it was what one did when one's conversation-partner pointed something out, wasn't it?

"Long gone!" said Sherlock with a too-cheerful tilt of the head. "Oh, a picnic area."

"Five minutes ago you tore me away from my breakfast because you said we only had half an hour to get to a train station thirty miles away," replied John.

"As ever, John, you see but you do not observe," returned the detective with false sweetness, "Oh, a monarch butterfly."

"Now you're just...ergh."

John turned his back on Sherlock and pressed his face against the window-glass with all the poutyness of a girl denied a visit to the mall, which meant that Sherlock, ever vying for attention, began to chatter glibly.

"I see...a rabbit. A pebble. A blade of grass. A hair. A molecule. An airplane. A leaf. A speck of dust. A drop of sweat."

This elicited no response from John, despite how ridiculous a speech it was; as Sherlock paused to gauge John's interest, John crossed his arms and firmly looked out the window with renewed attention.

"God, I hate the country," said Sherlock with a snarl, rolling all of the windows in the car down. "So, so, _so_ boring."

It was a rather nice morning, with heavy patches of clouds alternating with doses of intense sunshine and blue sky. The wind was brisk, however, especially at the speed Sherlock was driving (an obscene one).

"Don't," muttered John sternly, "my coat's in the back."

Sherlock didn't respond, peevishly, and John was reduced to scolding.

"Sherlock...roll the windows up."

No response. It seemed that Sherlock had withdrawn into his thoughts, or was pretending to have withdrawn. He was wont to do both and either of those things often.

John pressed the button to at least roll up _his_ window, but found that it wouldn't respond. Sherlock had locked it.

"Oh, come off it, Sherlock," John said, responding to his inability to control his comrade by pretending he had some control over his comrade. "I'm going to count to three."

This didn't make Sherlock react in any way.

"One."

Nothing.

"Two."

Nothing.

"Three."

Nothing. Except John was incredibly fed up.

"You know how remarkably apologetic you were after telling me off the other night?" he said, not looking at Sherlock, speaking on intuition, "I'd like to see some more of that, come to think of it - I should be more angry that you deliberately poisoned me with unpredictable gaseous substances. And _tried_ to with the sugar."

This curt reminder of Sherlock's too-recent failures as a friend and as a detective caused an instant reaction; one hasty swipe and they were sealed from the wind again.

"Cold increases basal metabolism. Good after a heavy breakfast," said Sherlock with some irritation, but this irritation was hiding a mute apology.

John sighed - it wasn't much, but it was enough for his too-forgiving heart to acknowledge.

"Thank you. And are you implying that I'm gaining weight?"

Sherlock's avoided answering that question, instead turning up the volume of the radio - initially too loud, just to make John look at him with a _really, Sherlock?_ tilt of the head, then to a more agreeable level.

And then, when John asked, "Well?" in an attempt to follow-up, Sherlock began to hum along with the music, absently.

He was quite good at humming, actually, but that wasn't a surprise given his natural abilities at musicianship.

With a sigh, John turned to look out the window again, absorbing the countryside, which he actually found pleasant in its craggy dreariness.

They drove for a while in relative silence, John admiring the scenery, Sherlock humming lowly.

Then the song changed, and John recognized it as a song that was rather popular at the moment; BBC had used it as a background to a trailer for a new crime drama of late.

To his surprise, his friend progressed from humming to singing along with the song - kind of.

"Fa...fa fa fa...fa...mi...mi mi mi so...fa..."

Those weren't the lyrics, John could hear. Besides, Sherlock seemed to be enunciating the words as if they were Italian.

_Fate will not force us, they will stop decrying us...they will not control us...we will be victorious..._

But the notes were right. Mostly. Sometimes a little warbly, but then again John hadn't ever heard Sherlock sing before in any circumstance. So probably not very practiced.

"What are you-"

"-Solfège."

John wondered when the last time was that he'd got out a whole question in their dialogues.

"What?"

Did a single-word, monosyllable question count?

"Think _Sound of Music_ ," Sherlock answered.

"Ah." John felt like he should understand, but he didn't really, and his silence was testament to his confusion enough.

Sherlock sighed. " _Do_ , a deer, a female deer. A tragic series of puns."

This made John laugh; he wasn't as well read up on music things as Sherlock was, but it was amusing to think that somewhere in Sherlock's mind palace dwelt a pretty Austrian novice and her guitar.

"Isn't that the type of thing you would normally delete?" asked John, turning down the music for the sake of conversation.

"What, the musical or the method?"

"What method? I thought it was just a song."

" _No_ , John." Thereupon Sherlock launched into a brief musical history lesson, concluding his lecture with, "so you see, given that I have a musical memory akin to Mozart's, it actually saves space to replace syllables of mundane song lyrics with seven simple syllables. The melody will stick either way, irrespective of my choice to remember it, so why complicate matters by remembering real words? I've preserved several hundred thousand neurons from having to carry this excessive load with the aid of solfège. Because, you may have noticed, our daily experience is supersaturated with music. Pretty terrible music, as it is. Like this crap. Do I really need to know the words to something like, say, _Smooth Criminal_? or _Can't Touch This?_ "

"You're so _funny_ ," said John, laughing a little, faux-punching Sherlock in the shoulder with an gentle tap.

"Or - good grief - _Sexy Naughty Bitchy_ Ugly Nasty whatever."

John couldn't help but really laugh at that.

"There's some things I can't _help_ but remember, though," Sherlock went on, grinning impishly. "Muscle memory can get in the way of conscious efforts to delete audible memory," Sherlock continued ranting, a touch of a smile ghosting his face. "For example, I will _never_ be able to live a life where Harold Hill's _Ya Got Trouble_ doesn't crop up, undesired, from time to time."

"What?" John was unacquainted with...whatever that was. He actually wasn't sure that he'd heard right.

"My mother fancied I'd do well on the stage for some time, what with my ability to reproduce patter songs verbatim when she played soundtracks in the car. It broke the poor woman's heart when I stood up at my first audition for a role and couldn't remember the words because the music wasn't playing."

John suddenly began to wonder what had brought on this self-revelatory speech. He couldn't remember Sherlock saying anything about his mother before, ever, aside from one conversation with Mycroft.

Sensing John's musings, Sherlock said, abruptly, as though he'd been confronted with the surprise aloud, "Don't friends disclose things like this?"

"Erm. I'm not sure if 'disclose' would be the right word, but yeah, that's about right," said John, his heart feeling warmer at the knowledge that Sherlock, in his backwards way, _was_ trying to be a friend.

With the background image he had in his mind of a little twelve-year-old wunderkind Sherlock standing with a blank, supercilious look in front of a kind-looking older woman with tears in her eyes and two or three tired drama teachers who couldn't see what she saw, John couldn't help but wonder how much practice Sherlock had in that department.

Things must have always been difficult for people who loved Sherlock, so John doubted many people had dared to care.

"All right, this has been a _dreadfully_ amusing conversation, John, but we're nearly at the station now."

_How much of it was actually conversation?_

John just smiled as they pulled off the road into the tarmac parking lot of the car rental center.

In spite of - no, _because of_ all his faults, Sherlock was really like no other individual John had ever encountered.

Which meant that, sadly, John was all the more certain that it would be The Wrong Thing To Do to fall in love with Sherlock Holmes.

But funny things could happen - after all, how often was it that twice in ten minutes one could run across the same song in two different places? Because when they entered the rental center, that same song that Sherlock was singing to was playing on the public announcement system.

_They will not force us._

_They will stop decrying us._

_They will not control us._

_We will be victorious._

John couldn't get the idea out of his head that maybe - as adolescent and reactionary a song as it was - it really was a fitting anthem for him and his crime-solving mate.

And, even funnier - for all his talk about the uselessness of song lyrics - when John approached the door to the loo a minute after Sherlock went in, he stopped and didn't go in, because he could hear a rich baritone voice belting the words.

Which meant that John would lean cooly against the door, put on his sunglasses, and pretend to have the misapprehension that it was a single-stall bathroom so that he could listen.


	9. A Puff of Smoke

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All he wanted was a cigarette after the nightmare. Post return. Fluffy and angsty. Oneshot. Established relationship.

All he wanted was a cigarette, now that he was awake.

He sat up, curling the bedsheets around him, and rose like a wraith, his face drawn and solemn, his fingers agitated as they grasped the hem of his sheet a little bit too tightly, a little bit too foolishly, a little bit too fearfully.

_No_. His fingers would not betray him; he had control over them, and he could _will_ them to do something useful, even if they were as fidgety as static, even if they behaved like spooked horses, even if they were tense and pulsing with his quickened heartbeat.

A cigarette. John was still at the late shift. He could hide the smell and pretend he'd had no shameful relapse. An open window. A foul-smelling 'experiment' in the sink. Mint oral rinse. If worst came to worst, a bottle of lavender essential oils from his sock drawer.

John'd never be the wiser.

_Now to find one._

To be fair, John _did_ keep them to ease exactly these kinds of circumstances, for when Sherlock's adrenaline was disproportionate to what the realities of life required, for when Sherlock's persistent whinging just got overmuch on a tedious dreary afternoon, for when Sherlock's energy exceeded his own and the nicotine splurge was barter for a cuddle (as opposed to a romp.)

_Enabler._

Or was he? Sherlock had thought there was a pack, wrapped in white paper, hidden in John's pants drawer. But that had been weeks ago. It now seemed to be gone.

He strode back into the living room, realizing that John - in a stroke of idiotic brilliance - was trying to be clever.

_Now's not the fucking time for games, John._

But he found the pack again, too easily - zipped in the unused front pocket of his violin-case. (The first thing he saw leaving John's room.)

Like the easiest to catch of criminals, John didn't have a sense of subtlety. John, having two good ideas in a row, acted on both of them, not logically discerning which of the ideas might be the _best_. Or considering that the effectiveness of the second trick might be diminished by the cleverness of the first.

It was injudicious, but predictably so, and Sherlock was, for the moment, grateful. Despite the abhorrent gaudiness lent to the situation by John's resplendent irony. (He was always telling Sherlock to _practice his music_ as a first recourse to nicotine.)

For the sake of _pretending_ to try and take John's advice (or because of a more sentimental motive than he cared to admit) Sherlock pressed his shaking fingers into the strings, but only for a moment as he removed the plastic from the cigarette pack with his teeth.

He'd be useless at playing right now, anyway. His fingers were shaking with a vibrato that would be better suited to a cellist.

He lit the cigarette at his bunsen burner, because he didn't care to try and find a real lighter, and he stood there in the center of the room and willed the memories of the dream to disappear, letting the sheets dip off his shoulders just a fraction.

Even with all the lights on in the flat, he could still see the face of the man he'd killed in the Romanian airport lavatory, and it lingered at the front of his mind.

After all, how often was it that one came across one's apparent double?

Sherlock had never been much of a sleeper, but he had slept for almost two days straight after returning from that fateful, final mission. Returning to England after years of self-imposed exile, returning to a stunned Watson whose engagement dissolved within hours of his arrival, returning from the dead at last.

Returning with blood on his hands.

It wasn't as if it was the _killing_ that affected him. Killing was simple to Sherlock - it was exterminating the vermin that threatened his home. _He_ was the only beast they deserved to have in their lives, that long-suffering (oh, he _knew_ they were long-suffering!) quartet of John, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, and Molly. At least he cared about them, though he pretended not to.

So of course, like the wild stray was fiercely loyal to the only human creatures that comforted it, he collected the corpses of the mice that plagued their pantries, unbeknownst to them. And he delighted in the meals they made him - a bounty price was on many of those heads.

But the last one - the _last_ one - had given him indigestion, what with the marks' striking face, dark black curls, piercing-blue eyes, and elegant, condescending smirk.

He'd never known how little people looked like their mug-shot pictures until he saw this man in the flesh.

Of course, it all was clear to him instantaneously, as soon as they made their penetrating eye contact with each other - _excellent_ plastic surgery.

It wasn't that much of a surprise. He'd known this was the man who'd played at _looking like Sherlock Holmes_ to traumatize the ambassador's daughter. Sherlock had just thought the actor was a person who merely bore a passing resemblance, or who had worn a mask.

_Wrong_.

Moriarty had made this henchman a perfect duplicate. Sherlock's nemesis always did like to overdo things.

At the time, Sherlock had calculated the psychological profile of this man - this man who had been forced to bear the face (as per blackmail compliance) of a foreign celebrity he didn't know or care about. Who had been forced to use this face to kidnap a little girl, probably much like one of his own daughters, and threaten her with words he could not understand. Who was otherwise a small fish aside from his brief role in Moriarty's London drama - family man, native of Romania, professor of anthropology, author of some inconsequential papers about Romanian elders' use of herbal medicine. Primary criticisms of which papers were that he hadn't read English articles on the subject, and therefore was becoming outmoded.

He was inoffensive but deadly. He was armed. He knew Sherlock was alive. He was going to London to assassinate John. He was obeying the orders of his blackmailer, the orders enclosed in an email from a desperate man who had died almost immediately after sending the instructions.

It was an accident that wouldn't have happened if Sherlock had stayed to see the poison finish its dirty deed on the man who'd sent the email, but out of tedium and the exhilaration of having completed (he'd thought) his crusade, he'd wanted to go have a smoke, and he was sure that the man had no longer than a quarter of an hour to live, if that.

So he'd left the Italian villa (the scene of the crime) and stepped into the sunshine and found that he had no cigarettes (smoked them all) and glanced into the room where the man was vomiting, near-comatose on the Venetian carpet, and decided the victim was as good as. So he'd left. And come back ten minutes later from the corner store, victorious.

But only to discover that a laptop had been yanked, by its cord, unceremoniously off a desk into the pools of vomit (colored red by blood) and, blinking and askew, it displayed a _Your email has been sent_ page.

It took only a good keyboard-wiping-off and a check into the author's sent email box to figure out the rest.

This information made it very easy to find the would-be assassin, certainly. Until jeopardized by his participation in this last desperate scheme, the man had retired into the woodwork after his first and only performance at the London school. He'd been safe until he'd received this last frightening email. And he didn't know he was currently safe, because the conniving author of the deathbed email cleverly forgot to inform the Romanian that he was dying.

Which meant that Sherlock was more than willing to let the man go free, unharmed. Happy to tell the poor soul that he would be forced to do no more jobs to prevent his wife from being told about his affair with a graduate student and to prevent his whole family from subsequently being slaughtered.

Sherlock had, for the occasion, even memorized a speech in Romanian, courtesy of one of Mycroft's information moguls.

But when they'd made eye contact in the airport, Sherlock knew they'd have no time to talk.

All of the rage a man could possess - caged and alone and bitter and angry - was in the Romanian's eyes.

And they were _Sherlock's own_ eyes.

No doubt it was why they chose him - so easy to style everything else to be _exactly_ like the features of Sherlock, but the quality of eyes was one difficult to duplicate.

This said, though their eyes were exactly the same in every way superficially, the Romanian's shone with a very _human_ , _feeling_ way, a way that Sherlock was certain he'd never seen in the mirror.

In addition, while they were eyes that contained a depth of wisdom and mental acuity that was nearly boundless, the only _sense_ that lay behind those eyes was the reason of the crazed, willing to justify any misdeed for the excuse of protecting his family.

The Romanian could do no wrong. His children were at stake. And he could trust no one but himself to protect them. He just had one assignment. And that was to kill the man who looked like him.

So there, in the airport, after the man's surprise (at seeing Sherlock there and not in London) instantly ebbed into anger, he drew his knife and charged the wandering detective. He wasn't well trained, which meant that Sherlock (with his experience in jiu-jitsu) easily pinned him. And Sherlock tried to reason with the man, in broken Romanian.

But there were no ears for Sherlock's story. The man was a tiger in a cage, disturbed by a monkey throwing fruit at it. So the Romanian smiled and pretended to understand, until Sherlock's hold loosened an iota, and then he wrested himself away and attacked more vengefully.

Someone was yelling for security, and Sherlock was regretting that, in his too-high optimism for a peace mission (later he called it denial), he'd brought no weapon.

He was soon in a lock with the man, and they struggled, and the knife got kicked away, and Sherlock was grabbing it, and before he knew what had happened he had stabbed the man through the heart.

And he'd leaned forward and looked, with awe, into his own eyes, listening to the gutteral, pained whispers coming from the man. There was so much there, Sherlock could tell, but neither of them spoke the other's tongue.

At least, that's what Sherlock had thought, until he realized the other man was speaking a few words of English.

_I curse you motherfucker_

said the man, but seemed to have met the limit of his knowledge of English, and he knew it.

_I curse you I curse you I curse you_.

And Sherlock had paid no attention, instead focusing on administering first aid, since it was clear the man was no longer a danger to him, and calling the authorities to bring an ambulance.

The man didn't make it; Sherlock had done the job too well, and even before an ambulance arrived, the Romanian had passed.

But moments before he'd gone limp, the Romanian had seized Sherlock's hand and carved with his fingernail some unknown symbol, leaving trails of red inflammation and white dead skin cells in this ominous marking.

Conferring with a local later about the matter, it was told to Sherlock that the symbol (diligently recorded) was the symbol of the devil.

Leaving the symbol on Sherlock's hand was a sign that he had, in fact, cursed Sherlock in the manner of Romanian witchcraft.

Not that Sherlock needed to be told this to know it; it was just a confirmation of his suspicions. The experience had been altogether too close to metaphysical for his own liking.

And not twenty-four hours after this incident, he'd found himself knocking on a door with John Watson on the other side of it for the first time in three long years, prepared to announce that not only was he back from the dead, but that he also figured that it was time to call off the _I'm Not Gay_ and the _I'm Married To My Work_ games.

He found John engaged to a woman, but all too willing to allow Sherlock back into his life.

Even though initially he refused to allow Sherlock into his bedroom.

But now...

_Now..._

It was almost exactly how it was six years before, the only differences (aside from the shagging thing) were that John worked a lot more (and enjoyed it), that Sherlock was bored a lot more (Moriarty being gone, and all), and that Sherlock was the one having bad dreams.

He'd never had bad dreams - at least as far as he knew. (He might have deleted them.)

But now here he was, standing in their living room when he _had_ been sleeping _,_ smoking a cigarette even though he knew he'd be raked over the coals for it later. (He acknowledged post-relapse that he was delusional if he thought he could keep John from knowing.)

And he kept thinking about John, and wishing that John was home and not at the hospital, and wanting _to be touched_ by John, and wanting to be told, _don't worry, it was all a dream_ by John...

...and lo and behold, his cell phone beeped, and it was _John_.

_remind me we need milk tmw_

The pull of his heartstrings was so silly, so _sentimental_. He was _beyond_ happy that John had texted this mundane, worldly thing to him at that precise moment - it was like those times that, when Sherlock was sleepless and pensive and depressed and staring at his sleeping partner and wanting desperately to be touched, John would dreamfully mutter something about spinach or ibuprofen and grab Sherlock's arm or wrist, stuff his hand under Sherlock's pillow instead of his own, or whack Sherlock across the nose without much enthusiasm.

So Sherlock was getting used to the sentimentality thing. Besides, in his waking moments, John had thus far encouraged it, insisting that _feelings_ were _good_ and Sherlock ought to _open up more_.

Ergo, now when given the opportunity to respond to this unconscious touch in the night, Sherlock couldn't help but reply. But because he was somewhat still conflicted about how delighted he was that John texted at that precise moment - well, conflicted mostly about the idea that synchronicities might exist and that in this possibility he might still have the capacity to be _delighted,_ despite the knowledge that synchronisities could possibly invalidate many successful instances hitherto attributed to his own scientific and deductive prowess - he couldn't allow himself to be pleasant about it.

_Tut tut, didn't even think to say 'sorry for waking you up,' it's three in the morning you know._   
_-SH_

And he took a last deep breath from the cigarette, dashed the remnants into a petri dish, and lit another in the bunsen again.

He knew John would know it was an empty gripe.

_yeah, like youd bother when smashing things at four am. : ) anyway ur clearly up. why?_

Leave it to John to point out the obvious.

_In my defense: I only do that when you're so far gone that smashing is the only thing capable of waking you._   
_-SH_

He avoided answering the question initially, because he didn't know how much he should reveal, but he did answer.

_And experiment. Obviously._   
_-SH_

It wasn't necessarily obvious, in all fairness, since John had been gone nearly twelve hours and in that time only contacted Sherlock to tell a (poor) joke he'd heard and to mention some patient's distant relation to a client they'd had. But it might well have been obvious, Sherlock told himself, even if this was a lie.

_what kind?_

Oh. Well. John was either bored at work or more interested than usual. Collapsing on the couch as the neurochemicals in his brain began to respond to the nicotine, finally, Sherlock decided to come up with a boldly false reason that the place stunk of smoke.

_Microfilm burns._   
_-SH_

The reply to this was unusually perceptive, for John. It was probably just the wisp of a hint of a relapse - _anything_ burning made John think that Sherlock was trying to use a substance - that made his answer so urgent.

_I'm on my way DON'T DO ANYTHING_

Sherlock sighed, inhaled, and reflected on how treacherous he felt, smoking. And telling John that _something was burning_ so bluntly - maybe, in metaphor, his self-respect? - it was, more or less, an order to return home. He knew doing this to himself would get John's attention. And he did it anyway, selfish dick that he was.

He should have just gone with his original plan - oral rinse, lavender oil, etc. and hoping that John wouldn't notice excess atmospheric carbon particles upon returning.

_No hurry._   
_-SH_

It was a paltry apology.

But he'd pay for this petty sin - now he'd be faced with talking about his _feelings_ for an hour or two, and while he adored how John paid such close attention to his every word when they had such discussions, he loathed acknowledging and confronting and _talking about_ his own sentimentality.

After all, being sentimental had too nearly caused the death of the person he cherished most. More than once.

In any case, John returned quicker than Sherlock could bother to move himself and clean up his mess - pounding on the stairs, the door swinging open frantically, a crisp heavy-breathed "Sherlock?"

"In here."

John's slumped shoulders at the smell was enough to make Sherlock close his eyes in denial. Not wanting to _see_ how disappointed John was. Nor how concerned.

"Where did you get those?" asked John in such a tone that indicated he _knew_.

Sherlock didn't reply, but out of some sarcastic attempt at respect he dashed the half-smoked cigarette in his fingers into the petri dish. It hadn't been enough of a dose of nicotine, but it was something. Now, maybe he could coax a patch or two out of John. And, come to think of it, now there was more there for next time.

"From your violin case, no doubt. I knew it was tempting fate to put them there."

John sat down on the edge of the couch, removing his hospital coat and tossing it across the mess on top of the coffee table. He then wedged himself against Sherlock, who made room for him there alongside, with feigned reluctance.

Sherlock was so glad he was no longer alone, draping an arm around his lover, attempting to execute nonchalance, being betrayed by his shaking fingers and the closeness with which his arm pressed against John's body.

"Dare I ask if you want to tell me about it, yet?"

They had begun conversations about Sherlock's nightmares before, usually when he awoke in a cold sweat or when John awoke him mid-sleep-throttle.

Feeling as numb as a child, Sherlock shook his head, already craving another cigarette but being pinned against the back of the sofa by John created a problem; the pack was on the table.

Anyway, he didn't _need_ it, not really, nor _want_ it, not really, nor _deserve it_ , not really. It was the continuous cycle he went through every time his compulsion came to mind. He just felt badly _without_ it.

His muscles must have been making motions of their own accord, however, because John said, kindly, softly, "Don't. You've had enough for one night."

So he relaxed, consciously, breathing deeply for the chemicals still lingering in the air.

His body protested, but he had John now. And he acknowledged this by pressing deeply against his dearest friend and protector, trying to let every cell of their bodies that could touch communicate one-on-one.

"You didn't have to come," he said, though his gratitude that John _had_ come was beyond compare.

John shrugged against him, a muscle movement that evoked the warm scents of _Johnness_ that tugged from the cotton button-down and sweater-vest. "End of shift."

"An hour early?"

Sherlock could hear the smile in John's response.

"Well, I was _bored_."

"Don't be evasive," Sherlock replied grouchily.

" _You_ don't be evasive."

"Fine. Missed you," he said.

_Oh god, what an understatement._

He noted that he was feeling the sting of tears behind his eyes that he didn't want to acknowledge.

"What happens, in your dream?" asked John, because he knows just as well as Sherlock does that it is more or less the same dream.

"It's...just trauma," replied Sherlock, his voice too thick to form words very well. "Cyclical. Over and over, skewed reality."

He had in his mind the image of his hand engaged in vibrato, fingers extended and long, his wrist shaking with emotion he otherwise repressed except when playing his instrument - but not stopping. Paralyzed in its shaking. A never-ending earthquake of trauma being played out in his hand.

"Enough of the diagnoses. What's the content?" John was trying to sound detached and clinical, but only succeeded in sounding firm.

"Death."

Sherlock didn't know why he had even revealed that. In previous conversations on the subject, he'd pretended to fall asleep again, talked at length about things as irrelevant as oysters and half-crowns, or just remained stoic. He'd not once described what he was repeatedly seeing.

Then again, talk therapy dreamwork during their period of separation had helped John escape the realities of his unconscious.

Maybe there was something to it, with the proper approach.

It had to be strong and effective, however. And quick. Because the stain of this dream was edging its way throughout the Mind Palace, coloring everything with its taint, and it was as formidable and eerie and inevitable as The Blob.

"Whose?"

Sherlock wasn't able to reply, but John was helpful.

"Yours? Mine?"

"Both," Sherlock managed to squeak out. And it did sound squeaky. The humor of it settled slowly, and soon they both were chuckling quietly against each other, Sherlock nestling his face into John's hair, John pressing his ear against Sherlock's heart (clearly taking Sherlock's vitals even when both were in repose).

"So, we both die," John said, once their little laughter died. "Together?"

"Far. Far apart."

"While you were abroad?"

_How does he know?_

"Rather."

"Um." John paused, shifting to chew his underlip pensively. "Could you be a bit more descriptive?"

"No."

_I don't want to even talk about it._

Sherlock imagined himself shoving his partner to the floor and stalking to his bedroom and locking the door and sitting on the messy floor and dredging up from under a floorboard (where he'd kept it in his old non-Baker Street apartment, since vacated) a stash of the most brilliant white stuff he could afford and doing what he knew how to do _so_ very well but hadn't since days before John.

This was the kind of hurt that the dreams inflicted on him. He'd not been high in _so_ many years.

Most of that time, with John around, he hadn't wanted to be.

Even now, though, with John so close to him, Sherlock wondered if he could persuade one of his snouts to point him in the right direction of some first-class dope.

This was easier to think about than the thought of giving John a play-by-play of the dream.

But as he realized how grave a crime of thought he had committed, he wondered if he couldn't rise to the challenge of overcoming this demon.

He loved challenges, because he was _so good_ at overcoming them.

But perhaps John was right, saying once that Sherlock put so much effort into solving _other peoples'_ problems because the great detective didn't want to solve _his own_ problems.

Much less admit that he _had_ any.

_Well, that doesn't change the fact that I'm good at providing solutions._

All this went through his head before John could come up with something to say.

"I know how difficult this is for you, Sherlock - but if you don't talk about it, I think it will keep bothering you," John said.

_...Difficult for_ you _, Sherlock...for_ you...

"Why does it have to be _difficult for me?_ " demanded Sherlock, his voice tensing. "How am I different in this matter from anyone else?"

"I swear to god, that better not be an honest question."

"I mean it!" Sherlock sat up and _looked_ at his lover, straight in the eye. "It took you _years_ to talk about yours, John, _years._ "'

"Haven't you listened to me tell you how much I regret putting that off?"

John couldn't bear to look too deeply into Sherlock's eyes, so he closed his own, and Sherlock wondered mutely: if he had the eyes of the Romanian - ones that echoed meaningfulness and emotionality - would John find his eyes irresistible?

"Yes," John said, still closing his eyes firmly, "it took me years, Sherlock - of course you know that! But part of it was, as you immediately recognized from the start, an incompetent therapist! Malorie - she's marvelous. I've told you how marvelous she is, Sherlock."

"And so have innumerable other people, John, _including_ my own mother, as you know - hence why I thought she would help _you_."

"There!" John opened his eyes and thrust his finger into Sherlock's pectoral muscle. "You're saying that because it took me years to overcome my shadows, it justification your brooding and bottling up your mounting issues, but at the same time you recognize that a competent therapist was the key to overcoming them."

"Not the key, John," said Sherlock quietly, "the key was accepting the help. I gave you her card the week we first met. And yet you persisted with your psychologist."

"I'd made a commitment to her. One I intended to honor. Until I realized how bloody _unhelpful_ she was in helping me cope with the _death_ of my dearest friend."

The bitterness was still there, even after so many months after their reunion, and it pained Sherlock.

Even more than it pained him to think of turning back the conversation to where it originally focused.

"But the only reason you cared enough to _notice_ that she was unhelpful is because you were no longer _resistant_ to the idea of accepting help," Sherlock suggested, shifting his legs to wrap them around John's in what he hoped was a loving gesture. "For myself – my conceptualization of my body is that it is an appendix, and my conceptualization of my mind is that it is a well-oiled machine."

"And your soul?"

That was the only problem with Malorie – she had a preoccupation with the human _soul_.

It was contagious, apparently, because the word occupied a much more fundamental place in John's vocabulary than it had pre-Malorie.

"Not my area," Sherlock said, "if only out of indifference. The ethereal..."

He waved his hand in the air above them and, as he thought about the immensity of the subject of the _spiritual_ , he was awkwardly aware of his lack of expertise in the area, so he laid his hand down again to pat John's shoulder.

"Just not my area."

He didn't like _not knowing_ , and of all that was visible and invisible, the invisible was certainly less knowable than the visible.

So he restricted himself to that which he could empirically observe and deduce, and what fit his definition of reality, excluding all other things – sometimes offhandedly dismissing them, but really just never _thinking_ about them because they were terrifying and easier to call irrelevant than actually confront.

"You don't need to know _everything_ ," said John, picking up on this with that blasted _intuition_ of his.

That was one of the amazing things about John that had attracted Sherlock so quickly and subtly – John had an appreciation for empirical reason, but flourished in situations that called for intuitive action. He was a balance for Sherlock's supreme faith in rationality.

He was, in some senses, Sherlock's heart, disembodied, too great and too fragile and too important to be carried in the abused shell of a corporal body that Sherlock called an appendix.

Moriarty had been _right_. And Sherlock had known it only after it had been pointed out.

"I'm not _trying_ to know everything," Sherlock replied, closing his eyes and letting his head tip forward onto John's shoulder. "I just _know_ things."

"But you don't know what to do about your dream," said John, compassionate and thoughtful.

Sherlock nodded with the faintest movement of neck muscles.

"No. But I do know a few things about it. And understanding the nature of the beast is the second step to conquering it, after acknowledging that the beast exists."

(That was based on a rudimentary substance abuse counseling mantra.)

"What sorts of things?" asked John; of course asked John, he always _wanted_ to know what Sherlock thought Sherlock knew. And then question it. It was fatiguing and exasperating, but only because it tested Sherlock. And he appreciated that.

"One: it's a reinterpretation of literal, real events," began the detective, succinct. "Two: it involves a bad situation gone worse. Three: I awake from the dream terrified and in desperate need of anxiety suppressants."

The fourth was less matter of fact, so he paused and took a breath.

"Four: I never have the dream when you're at my side."

John chose his response to this carefully.

"I think I had the same experience."

Yes, they had; it had been years ago now, when John had awoken one night after the sudden turn of a dream from nightmare to sudden nothingness, and the change of experience was so abrupt it shook him awake, and he saw Sherlock kneeling at the side of his bed, gazing at John with a look of fascination.

The shared look that resulted had been awkward and silent, and Sherlock had left with a hurry and strangely returned with a cup of tea that had mineral specks in it because he hadn't washed out the kettle properly first to get rid of the hard-water buildup and he gave this cup to John and it was super-sweet chamomile, something John would typically eschew but at that moment it was the _perfect thing_.

John had said as much aloud, and Sherlock had smiled vaguely, pretending not to hear, and begun an extemporaneous lecture on the patterns of Chinese pottery and the smuggling rings he'd encountered that were associated with the trade of said pottery.

And the occurrence hadn't happened again, merely becoming a part of the fabric of their interwoven experiences, unacknowledged aloud but present in their dynamic, if only because it was one of the first instances that had made John wonder if, possibly, his new flatmate _did_ care about other people, after all.

John had dreamt badly many times after that instance. Sherlock had, as far as he knew, not intervened a second time.

John had always wondered _why_.

"Really?" Sherlock asked, and it was obvious by the slow lilt of his voice that he was surprised – and that he was flipping back in his memory to find some evidence to support John's statement.

It seemed he hadn't deleted the memory in question, because all of a sudden, he tilted his head and looked into John's eyes and whispered, "That night?"

"How specific," said John, a smile on his face so subtle that it was worthy of Sherlock. "Yes, probably whatever night it is you're thinking of is the one I'm talking about."

"I made you tea."

"That's the one."

They sat in their newfound appreciation of each other – John having learned that Sherlock hadn't understood the dynamics of that situation very well, if at all.

The reply on Sherlock's part was poignant. "So...what we were communicating...it was as simple a thing as gratitude?"

Moved, but curious, John pressed, "Yes, what did you think it was?"

"I thought at the time that we were communicating about much more complex matters. If I'd been you, I'd have thought _oh, jolly good, it's clear this bloke's got a humongous crush on me, if he's watching me sleep_. Irrespective of the nightmare you were obviously experiencing. So that's what I was sure you were thinking. And – the reply I saw in your eyes was _um, that's all fine, but it's not reciprocated._ "

John couldn't help but laugh, sadly, at this confession. "Well, it's a good thing you're a professional consulting detective, not a mind-reader."

"They're rather close to the same thing," said Sherlock glibly, wiggling down a bit so he could burrow his face into John's shoulder.

"So _that's_ why you never _said_ anything, either," said John, comprehension awakening within him. "You gorgeous idiot."

"Nothing further needed to be said, I thought – and, it seemed to me, my...feelings towards you were _implicit,_ " whinged Sherlock. "When did I get so bloody _stupid?_ "

"See why it's so important to talk about feelings," said John with a laugh. "Though it's largely my fault. I thought about saying something for a long time afterwards – mostly just wondering why you never woke me up mid-dream again."

"I don't blame you," said Sherlock, "it was rather...awkward the first time 'round."

It occurred to him then that he hadn't wanted a cigarette for the past few minutes, what with this exciting new information at hand.

Of course, now that he was thinking about it, his craving was resurrected, but it did seem less imperative than previously.

"So, we could have had this a long time ago?" asked Sherlock, to which John gave a gentle laugh.

"Don't let yourself be burdened by regrets. I think I would have denied an attraction at that time, Sherlock. You also know how long it's taken me to accept being...other than 'not gay.'"

Sherlock took this reminder with gratitude.

"Point taken. As you've recently taken to telling me – everything that's _supposed to be_ happens at exactly the right time."

Fingers became entwined in his hair as John comfortingly, adoringly, lovingly fondled it.

"Exactly right."

John nestled against Sherlock, kissing the closest part of his lover's exposed skin (which happened to be neck) and Sherlock closed his eyes, and they lay there a while in silence, synchronizing their breathing.

"So," John said, after some moments of blissful silence, "are you comfortable telling me about this dream of yours yet?"

"...Not quite," replied Sherlock, his pulse raising as he began to review the dream in his mind's eye. There he was, in the nightmare, killing the Romanian in the airport – successfully withdrawing the knife from the fatal wound - then realizing that the Romanian was not embarking a flight to England but _disembarking_ a flight _from_ England – then realizing that, in a Jekyll/Hyde fashion, the Romanian was not another entity but instead a disassociated second personality – then realizing that, in an even more unsettling stroke of intuition, it was not his own blood that seeped across the carpeted floor of the airport, not the blood of the Romanian, but instead the blood of _John_.

In the dream, not only was he too late to save John, but he _was_ the Romanian who killed John, _and_ in killing the Romanian he was actually spilling the blood of John.

It was far too much for him to convey that moment, so he swallowed, and repeated, "Not quite. But..."

(he hated himself for making the promise even before he said it)

"...but soon."

All he wanted now was to banish the thought of the dream, now that he was awake; all he _needed_ now was John, alive and well and kissing him tenderly with the respect and love that John was wont to convey.

Decidedly, he needed John to be not bleeding or dead far, far away, but alive and throbbing with sexual energy that might not be appropriate for the situation but was present anyway, needed John to be breathing heavily and struggling not to give in to the animal urges that whispered to him, needed John to convince him of his own _life_ and _worth_ and _meaningfulness_...

As their entangled selves became hotter and hotter with the sudden efforts that were instantaneous, ignited, and inspired, an image came to Sherlock's mind that would later make him laugh.

John _was_ a cigarette – hot, phallic, comforting, all-ensconcing, deeply-penetrating, fragrant, simple, pleasant, nuanced, delicious. Even wrapped in white, in his hospital coat.

And, when he could be found, John lit up very well en cue.

(No Bunsen required.)

The only difference – John was far from disposable.

So maybe – John was a pipe?

Sherlock, as he gasped for breath with delight between puffs, wasn't sure, though he was fairly sure that if John knew where his thoughts were, John would either be shocked or amused.

_At least Mycroft seems to approve of this new mind-altering substance I've discovered._

Was he getting too sentimental if he hoped he'd never have it taken from him?


	10. Of Foolish, Thoughtful, Sentimental People

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock, how is it we came to be flatmates?" Super fluffy. Post Return. Ignoring fact that Watson's supposed to be married. Oneshot. Established relationship.

**Duet for Violin and Cello in C Major**

"Sherlock, how is it we came to be flatmates?"

This question came from John at the _most_ inopportune of moments when Sherlock was about to begin a timed trial of planting a battery-sized microphone in the leg of the table. He had his goggles and gloves on and had just laid the saw in the _exact_ place he wanted it - not a millimeter off - and was preparing the timer function on his phone.

The question probably was inspired by the fact that John liked to eat bowls of museli for breakfast off said table. And wanted said table to be intact for the morning ritual tomorrow.

This _was s_ omething that Sherlock had considered for about half a second before beginning the experiment, but he knew that if the table was tipsy after being disassembled and put back together (with bug successfully planted) John would end up shrugging and putting a book under whatever corner was making it unstable.

And again, it _wasn't_ as if he wasn't _planning_ on putting it back together again...that was rather the whole point, wasn't it? Hiding the device in such a way that no one would notice?

So Sherlock just half-smiled absently, pretending he hadn't heard, and focused on the leg of the table, preparing to begin sawing at it with all of the ferocity with which he would approach a piece by Sarasate on the violin.

(Because Sarasate was _difficult_ and _exciting_ , and feeling his fingers scratch it out filled him with almost as perfect a happiness as any he'd ever experienced.)

And he drew his arm back, the saw's teeth digging into the paint and uprooting it in flakes, like a plough over manicured green turf, revealing a nude scratch of wan pine underneath.

Then his eye noticed a scratch of _very_ similar color and proportions on the inner side of the _opposite_ corner's leg.

Dropping his tools, he examined this grandfatherly scratch and discovered, to a mix of delight and dismay, that his brother's technicians had attacked the table first.

Which didn't mean the experiment had no merit, not at all - in fact it made it much more relevant and interesting, plus he now had a model to follow from this anonymous expert at planting bugs - but it meant that he had to reevaluate the data first, and, thus distracted, he actually answered John. Which was unintended.

"What do you mean, _how_?"

"Like...I mean, was I the first one who asked you, Sherlock, or what?"

The question was an inane one, but for the sake of correctness, he pointed out:

"You didn't exactly get around to actually _asking_ , now did you?"

John seemed thoughtful, stirring a spoon in his tea.

"No. I'll never forget that moment. 'Afghanistan or Iraq?' I was almost _literally_ bowled over."

"Quite right," replied Sherlock, leaping up to get his magnifier from his coat-pocket. Said coat was flopped over John's chair, and John was half sitting on it.

"But you didn't answer what I just asked, Sherlock."

The detective grabbed the bottom hem of his coat and yanked fiercely, but John was purposefully being uncooperative and in fact was _intentionally_ making the task harder by putting all of his weight on the coat. And jamming his legs under the opposite couch for extra leverage.

So Sherlock decided to answer. He leaned down and whispered rather close to John's ear.

"Because when I saw you, my _balls_ almost fell off, I thought you so _sexy_ , John."

This distracted John enough to forget the half-formed game of tug-of-war, and as he sat upright (startled) the coat slipped from underneath his posterior into Sherlock's waiting arms.

"You aren't serious," said John after a moment of vanity, where he seemed to be actually considering the idea that Sherlock had been madly attracted to him from the first moment they saw each other.

They'd been in a relationship for months, now, since Sherlock's surprising (but not-so-surprising, really) return from the dead.

(It was ridiculous to pretend that they weren't in love with each other, given how much each was majorly devastated by the years-long separation, after all.)

Since, John had been mostly open and receptive to Sherlock's ideas of _intimate behavior_ , which was primarily experimental in nature (and therefore maddeningly inconsistent), but sometimes Sherlock thought his lover was a little slow on the uptake. Mostly because John still had trouble with the _gay_ thing, probably.

And because he (John) frequently got _far_ too sentimental.

"Of course not," said Sherlock coldly, turning out his pockets and finding that his magnifier hadn't been in them, after all. "Blast it. Do you mind?" he asked, motioning John to sit up so that he could look under the cushions.

John made an attempt to stand up, but ended up sliding off the chair with a bump (his tea sloshing a bit onto his shirt) because Sherlock was already tipping the seat-cushion forward.

"Ow!" he said, unabashedly overreacting like a mother trying to teach her infant that, for instance, biting somebody's finger was _bad._ "That wasn't nice, Sherlock!"

"Ugh," said Sherlock, replacing the cushion without cleaning up the debris underneath. He'd found nothing but some loose change (enough to buy one coffee, probably), a somewhat crumpled cigarette (he'd secretly retrieve it later), a pocket-sized-bottle of scented hand sanitizer (a client's?), ample amounts of crisp crumbs (John's) and the felt cloth he used for polishing his violin (stained by something orange).

So he waved his hands in the air as if to send sonar vibrations into the atmosphere to find the thing. "Blast!" he repeated. "Where is it?"

"Where's _what?_ "

"My _magnifier_ , _obviously_."

"Oh." John got back up and sat in the chair again, picking up the pillows that had fallen on the floor (alongside him) and thumping them smooth. "You should have said so. I think you left it in the bedroom." He then sipped his tea.

_"...Right."_

Moving too quickly to show his embarrassment at having forgot the hour spent examining John's scalp post-coitus, Sherlock dashed into his bedroom, retrieved the magnifier from its hiding-place within the mess of blankets, and leaped back into the living room, over the overturned table, to resume his procedure.

He knelt at the scratch left by his brother's specialist and carefully eyed it, trying to discern from which angle the expert had approached with the saw. Wondering if his way had been better.

But John, bless his dull little mind, was still hung up on his question.

"So, what was it, then? Was it just because I was the first person who applied? Was it because you actually thought Stamford was a decent...matchmaker? Or was it because I was _me?_ Or what?"

"Why do you _persist?"_ Sherlock replied without looking up. (The installer of Mycroft's microphone had been very rushed, though had also left the distinguished marks of a craftsman, and it was very interesting to see what aspects of detail had been neglected in the hurry.) "Honestly, does it _mean_ that much to you?"

John was disgruntled. "...A bit, Sherlock, it matters _a bit_."

"Well, it shouldn't."

This made John frown. "What have I said about _shoulds_ , Sherlock?"

"That they invalidate a person's _feelings_." The detective didn't like where the conversation was going; he knew all the lessons by heart, but that didn't mean he felt like they were _important_.

"Exactly. So how do you think I'm _feeling_ right now."

"Invalidated. _Obviously_."

John closed his eyes and drew in a frustrated breath; Sherlock didn't need to look to know that he was about to get a stern reprimand.

So he chose not to look, instead focusing on the wood in front of him, narrating very loudly in his brain to avoid losing concentration by being distracted by John's loaded words.

_He kept against the grain of the wood, which prevented it from splintering, I see, but also went at it from a 45 degree angle, he must have had significant upper arm strength - given lack of marks on the edge, he must have had it on his knee, like so..._

But John didn't say anything, and didn't say anything, and didn't say anything.

_...and from this position his arm would have had to have been extended in this manner...capable only by a man with significant upper arm strength, given the pressure on the saw. I wonder if he might have worked in custom cabinetry...or hand-carving wooden toys or something..._

And then he heard a rustling as John brushed off crumbs and drops of tea from the front of his sweater, a clink as he put his mug on the floor, and stood. And began to walk away.

And Sherlock knew he'd done something _wrong_.

"John, where are you going?" he asked, and actually bothered to look up to see.

His lover looked miserable and bitter, but not like he was planning on going somewhere significant, though he kept his eyes trained straight ahead, not looking at Sherlock.

"The _loo_ , you wanker."

"Mhm."

Sherlock tried to make eye contact and press his lips into a forced smile, but did not manage these tasks in time to communicate an apology before John shut the door.

John typically only had one bowel movement a day, in the morning. So the length of time that he spent in the bathroom that afternoon - twenty minutes - must have been either due to early symptoms of prostate cancer (less probable) or because he just needed some time alone to think about whatever it was that Sherlock had _done_ (more probable, but in some ways less preferable).

And Sherlock had decided too quickly that the table experiment could wait - his stomach was getting progressively queasy as he wondered what on _earth_ John was upset about.

So he finished cataloguing the procedure of his brother's technician (five seconds), moved said table back to a position appropriate for John to eat muesli off of it (one minute) tried to practice violin (seven minutes), fought the urge to dig the cigarette from under the cushion (six minutes, because John would smell it), and then relented to the urge and rescued the thing.

Then he searched for a lighter (three minutes, and he didn't find it - he used the stove) and allowed himself three minutes of tranquility, leaning out the kitchen window and turning on the range hood, his ears perked so that when John got out of the bathroom, he could dash the thing in a cup of water and hope his lover would be none the wiser.

"Good try, Sherlock."

_Damn_ , he hadn't heard the bathroom door over the roar of the hood. He dropped the fag hastily onto the cement sidewalk below and closed the window abruptly.

John turned off the stove (it had been left burning) and the dragon above it (so loud!) and looked directly at Sherlock, who was leaning nonchalantly against the counter.

"What did I do, John?" he asked, at first trying to sound casual, but already he was craving another cigarette and his hand was shaking.

Of course his nervousness had nothing to do with having been kept in suspense for such a long while.

He didn't care that much. Not at all.

John just sighed. "Nothing more than what you usually do, Sherlock."

Clearly depressed but also not forthcoming with what was bothering him, John sat down at the table (since returned to its proper place, upright) and put his head in his hands.

This was a cue that Sherlock recognized as one that meant John wanted to say what was on his mind, but only if Sherlock made a point to act interested.

Which was difficult most of the time, except not at the present, because John _was_ looking rather out of sorts.

So, with deliberate motions, Sherlock grabbed himself a chair and straddled it, backwards, folding his arms across the back of it and trying not to look grumpy himself.

"Explain."

It was all he could manage to say.

John shrugged. It was obviously something pithy, because it wasn't coming out easy. He was just staring blankly at the linoleum.

Sherlock sighed. "John, please."

And this elicited no more significant a response, though a returning sigh on John's part was added for the effect of greater exaggeration.

Greater measures were called for, it seemed, so Sherlock stood up, moved his chair to the opposite side of the table with a deft hand, and sat (backwards again) next to his lover closely, their thighs touching.

"Come on."

He leaned his elbow against the back of his chair to get a better look at John's face. It didn't look like John had been crying, not quite, but there was redness at his temples which suggested he'd been rubbing them fiercely with his fingers in exasperation.

Sherlock, in an attempt to be a little more normal than usual, extended a hand and flicked the underside of John's chin.

"Cheer up, tell me what I've done wrong."

There was more pleading in those words than he wanted to hear, but oh well, what was done was done.

It was the magic _ask me three times_ trick made a little bit more convincing by adding a fourth prerequisite question.

John could only resist so long before giving in, and for that Sherlock was thankful. He wasn't dealing with a Mycroft...or their father...when he was dealing with John. (Their sorts never explained, never forgave.)

And John communicated his forgiveness with a sudden, rushed embrace.

"I hate you," he said simply, ironically, and it was all Sherlock could do not to laugh.

He managed to contain himself by swallowing a couple of times.

Maybe he was actually resisting tears?

_(No, of course not, don't be an idiot.)_

"Really, _what_ did I do?" asked Sherlock, genuine in his attempt to understand.

"Nothing! You...you didn't do anything. It's me."

"It's you... _what_?"

"Just..." John squinted his eyes shut tight (Sherlock could feel it in the facial muscles that were pressed against his neck). "...I'm expecting too much, is all. I can't expect you to change."

This fatalism was characteristic of John's more melancholy moods, and it made something in Sherlock's physiology _ache_ to hear it.

Plus, it made him want to _prove John wrong_.

"Try me," said Sherlock with a voice of impervious steel.

This made John laugh weakly.

"You _have_ been, Sherlock. And that's what's the most frustrating thing about it. You _have_ been trying. I don't need to tell you how the things you say make me feel, not anymore. You _know."_

This was old news. "Yes, go on."

Then there was the exasperation so bitter that it almost signaled the advent of tears.

"...But despite the fact that you _know_ , Sherlock, you don't _act_ any different!"

Part of Sherlock wanted to ask John: _Are you, Doctor John Hamish Watson, seriously this worked up over something so stupid?_

But at the same time, Sherlock had to acknowledge that John had an exceptionally good point.

He knew the habits. He knew the lines. He knew what was going on.

He just didn't care enough to try and maximize the things he said and did that made John feel _happier_ and minimize the things he said and did that made John feel _less happy_.

And why?

It was just easier for him to do what came naturally. To _not try._

Because _not trying_ was something he was remarkably good at doing. Whatever didn't suit him, whatever was inconvenient, whatever was _boring_ \- he didn't care, and he didn't do it. Even when he knew it'd be good for him.

_You're a selfish prick._

But those were John's words, come to think of it. It wasn't as if John was a total victim. He was more than capable of dishing it out.

And hadn't he started off this conversation with the words, "I hate you"?

What about _his_ feelings?

Sherlock began to make this observation.

"John," he said, his tone condescending.

But all of a sudden he realized what he was doing, and so he repeated, more softly, "John." More kindly. Trying to be compassionate.

And then he decided he'd _really_ try.

"You know, I'd met several potential flatmates before you."

He felt John's body grow absolutely still, barely breathing, lending all of his ears.

It was what he liked most about John, perhaps - John would _listen_ to him, with rapt attention, never judging.

They'd talked about this already. They felt _love_ towards each other. _Love_ of all things!

It still made Sherlock smile to remember the fact. And pale at the idea that he might lose it.

"Several flatmates," repeated Sherlock, just for the sake of saying it. "I tried the classifieds and got scores of applicants, most of whom had really _irritating_ traits, such as nailbiting, chronic indigestion, and the like-"

"-Wait, so if I had chronic indigestion, you'd have passed me up?" asked John, but Sherlock just replied by strengthening his hold and laying a breathy, impulsive kiss on John's neck.

"In fact," Sherlock continued, "I hadn't run across anyone who I considered remotely interesting. Inevitably everyone was _boring_. Even students. The only ones I got to communicate with me were international students who had no interest in adventure _at all_. Literature, and international relations, whatever that is." He snorted.

John chuckled softly, too.

"I will admit," Sherlock continued, "I was about to settle on one of these very dull people before you came 'round. A friend of Molly's - a desperately unattractive chronic overeater who worked in medical computer programming and promised to lock herself in her room and never come out except to eat."

"That's not very nice," said John.

"It's all true," said Sherlock, "and she was actually very blunt about it."

"I'm sure," replied his blogger with a wry smile that Sherlock could feel against his shoulder.

Something made him realize anew that they'd been beginning to slip down an unfortunate slippery slope in their relationship, and he tightened his embrace with fervor.

Having time to reflect on the past, on what _might_ have been, made him remember how much he _really_ fancied John.

"But then...I'd been complaining to Stamford, and saying not very complimentary things about Molly's friend, since he tends to be like you, John...Stamford _listens_...and then lo and behold, I forget about our conversation entirely, and then right that afternoon he shows up again, and I'm reminded both how very foolish sentimental people are - he clearly went out of his way to bring you up to me, he was on his way to a dinner date with his mistress-"

"-Stamford? Mistress? Really?"

"It was _obvious_ , John. The cufflinks he was wearing. The fact that we initially ran into each other at a florist's - not an anniversary, wanting to order an unnecessarily expensive bouquet, fiddling with his-."

"-Wait, you were at a _florist's_?"

"Oh. Yes. It was a crime scene at the moment I was there."

"And you..." John raised his head, his curiosity piqued, and looked Sherlock in the eye. "...Stamford...I'm missing something here."

Sherlock smirked. He had been waiting to tell this juicy story for quite a while, since it was apparent that Stamford had not enlightened John himself.

"He was briefly in custody until I convinced Lestrade that the man had no involvement in the smuggling ring for which the florist's shop was a front. Just an oblivious customer who didn't notice the flowers in the window were half dead. To be fair, the way he yelped when-"

"-I've heard enough, Sherlock, go back to your point."

"Oh. Well, my point was, I was reminded both of how foolish sentimental people are, as I said, and also of how surprisingly thoughtful sentimental people could be. And the moment I saw him come in with you, I thought it'd be...nice to..."

He hadn't realized, actually, what he was saying in that sentence until now, and he was shocked at the layers that went into this thought process he'd had so long ago.

Layers that included _emotion_ _,_ of all things!

"Nice to _what?_ "

John knew never to let a good, vulnerable moment go to waste, Sherlock recognized ruefully, but he was fully committed to finish the sentence now, since the predicate meant that the thing he was going to say was obvious, in retrospect.

"...Nice to...have a foolish, surprisingly thoughtful sentimental person in my life. And you seemed like the type."

John seemed wholly incredulous. "Really?"

"Maybe." Sherlock closed his eyes. "I think that might have actually been it."

"Really." John seemed strangely touched by this expression, and in response pecked Sherlock squarely on the lips. "I'm...impressed," he said, though it was obvious that this was his opinion by the look on his face.

"Well, at the time I would have said it was because you were an army doctor and it looked like you wouldn't mind patching me up _pro bono_ after a hard day chasing criminals."

John's expression was softly curious, particularly at the firm, bashful smile on Sherlock's face.

"If that was all, why did you ask me to come with you that first night?"

_That_ was something that Sherlock had thought about a lot since, and the only answer he had was one that _really_ made him sound like he was just a big ball of sappyness.

"Well," he said avoidantly, "you _were_ waylaid by Mycroft."

"Uhuh, but you didn't know it at the time," said John, and Sherlock grimaced at the dashing of his hope that John would have forgotten that little detail. "So what was it, then?"

"Well, your medical opinion, I knew it could be useful."

"Mhm."

It was clear that John expected something more than that, and, truth be told, Sherlock realized his syntax left that implication open.

"And I knew that your limp _was_ psychosomatic. And that something that would bring something of your 'old self' back again, whatever you felt it was, would help you...forget."

"So you're telling me that it was almost exclusively for my own benefit." John was amused, and not believing that this was the final solution. "Sherlock Holmes, secret humanitarian."

"I'm not a humanitarian?" asked Sherlock, too seriously for John to take seriously, it seemed, because John began laughing, taking it to be a joke until he realized that Sherlock was looking at him with a _really, John_ look in his eyes.

"Well, not on the face of it," said John, appreciating that he'd been a bit out of turn.

"We can argue about that later, if you like," said Sherlock, relenting a little. John did perceive him to be selfish, after all, and sometimes that might _arguably_ be true, but Sherlock really felt like since he spent all his time solving other peoples' problems, how could he _not_ be a humanitarian?

He knew what John would say to that - _you do it because you're BORED!_

He also knew he could argue with John for hours about it.

But not now. Things were a little raw at the moment.

Later, when they could both enjoy the argument.

"So, was there anything else?" asked John, "because so far I remain unconvinced."

_So was I_ , Sherlock acknowledged to himself, e _ven John knows that my motives weren't totally arbitrary. Nor entirely rational._

"Well, John, I won't say that it was because I was desperately attracted to you or something, because that would not be accurate. I first became attracted to you a month after I had left England. I was in the Sahara Desert, and I realized that the camel I was riding was...the same color as one of your favorite old jumpers. And I will leave it at that."

John burst out laughing again. At least he was long out of his melancholy mood at this point, regaled by Sherlock's narrative. (If you could _call_ it a narrative.)

"So in any case," Sherlock continued, the words taking longer and longer to come from his mouth, "I was...when I first saw you, I did see you, of course. And I saw where you'd been and what you were and it was relatively easy to put you into a box in my mind and catalogue certain associations and whatnot."

He took a deep breath. John needed - _deserved_ \- to hear this. It was long past due, Sherlock realized, and maybe it would prove, telling him, that Sherlock _could_ change.

Could learn to respond appropriately to the knowledge he acquired.

To respect John's _feelings_ and _emotions_ and all that rot.

"Now, I'm only telling you this to prove a point," said Sherlock slowly, trying to delay the inevitable.

"I can tell," said John, and there was a depth of understanding in his voice that made Sherlock uncomfortable.

An understanding that felt so deep that it made him want to deny it and run away.

But he'd done a lot of that in the early months of their more intimate relationship, and it was time for him to finally _grow up_ , at least a little bit.

He was tired of being scolded for _not caring_.

"So, the reason I thought you should come out with me," said Sherlock, his voice getting lower, actually becoming a whisper.

He repeated himself, to steady himself.

"The reason I thought you should come with me was because..."

He inhaled, waited ten seconds, and exhaled through his nose.

And then he pressed his lips against John's ear to whisper, in a terribly low voice that contained so much rawness, sorrow, and pain that he dared not speak louder. Dared not keep his eyes open as he said it.

"...I saw someone who was just as lonely as I was."

They let this hang in the air a moment, Sherlock breathing heavily into John's ear for about a minute before he opened his eyes and leaned back to evaluate John's face.

John didn't look surprised, just somewhat struck dumb for a response.

That didn't matter. Sherlock was embarrassed to have said anything at all and would have preferred to forget the incident.

But that's what _people do_ , when they're in love. They say foolish things. And confess their failings.

He hoped John took the expression with the proper brevity.

(John did.)

"...That's a good reason, Sherlock," said John, his voice low and thick. "Very good."

At the same time, Sherlock could almost hear his friend screaming _lonely? You admitted to yourself that you were lonely?_

To which Sherlock did reply, after all, because he couldn't help but _show off_ the fact that he _knew_ things.

"And yes," he responded with gentleness, "I _had_ reached a point in my life where I _did_ think of myself as...alone. And not in a good way."

Though, from here on out, he was going to make an effort to be more sensitive about it - _showing_ he knew was different than _showing off_ that he knew.

At least, John thought so.

And Sherlock was taking John's word on faith.

"Though, I always did say that I'd have not lived half my life had I not spent most of it alone," Sherlock went on, feeling like now he'd stepped into the spiny underbrush and couldn't get out, despite his machete.

Emotions were prickly business. "So I suppose you might have inspired _that_ change in me, John Watson."

Saying nothing, John just took Sherlock's hand and began to massage it gently.

"Thank you for telling me this," he said, his voice soft and respectful. "I know it's hard for you."

And there he was, saved from the spiny underbrush, a little scratched but none the worse for wear, especially now that the doctor would melt the wounds away with tenderness.

"Difficult, yes. But also necessary."

"Necessary _how_?" asked John, and Sherlock didn't feel like answering _that_ question, so he avoided replying by swallowing harshly and pressing his lips against John's in a vociferous kiss.

The way John's eyes were dancing, though, when they finally pulled away, made him wonder if the kiss wasn't an answer in itself.

* * *

_N.B.: The part about "I'd have not lived half my life had I not spent most of it alone" is from holmeswriter's The Beekeeper's Diary, which is a marvelous story._

_Now, to other business._

_I have found in the past that **asking** for **reviews** tends to garner more reviews than **not** asking. __It's not strange if you think about it._ But I do hate to _**ask** for **reviews** because I believe that if I ask, half of the beauty of the review system - which, in its pristine state, is largely based on spontaneity - will disappear._

_So first, a humongous thank-you to the people who regularly read and review, on both my stories and others'. You are so, **so** appreciated. You all get snogging-with-Sherlock time._

_I'm not going to ask for reviews for myself or this story, per se. I'm just going to request that you wonderful people who have invested the time and effort to create an account on this website, to read stories posted here, and to collect stories in your favorites ... just make good use of the review system too, please._

_That is all. Hope you enjoyed this little piece._


	11. Of Sexual Attraction and Pavlov

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Sorry to spoil your date. -SH" One way Sherlock and John could have got together.

**Duet for Violin and Cello in B Major  
**

John hadn't gotten laid since he'd returned from Afghanistan.

First, he was too depressed to even think about making a move on a girl. He simply lacked a certain type of _feeling_ for it. _Nothing_ made him feel it.

Then he met Sherlock Holmes, and then he realized he wasn't depressed anymore. And very soon he realized that some libidinal energy had been activated that made him _want_ again.

So he tried. He let his eyes sparkle when a pretty woman made eye contact with him. She'd smile. He'd smile. They'd both smile, and maybe he would walk smack into a pole while they were smiling.

They would communicate that they liked each other with their eyes. Then their words would catch up. Then their lips would catch up. Then they'd go out.

But something would always, _always_ happen before the crucial moment in the dark when the time came to decide whether they'd let their bodies communicate on that more intimate level.

Sometimes it would happen at the moment of the date's maturity, with John opening the door to let her out of the cab, waiting to give her a kiss. She'd kiss him, usually, and he'd wait to understand whether it was a simple _goodbye, thank you_ or a _we're just getting this party started, baby_.

There wasn't a time in years that he'd had to send the cab away. Too frequently, he'd receive a text message from Sherlock in the awkward fifteen minutes it took to drive whoever she was home, and if John didn't get a message in that period, it would happen at an even _more_ inconvenient time, such as, for example, mid-kiss.

John really wondered if Sherlock could hack into all of the CCTV systems of the entire nation, because that damned phone _never_ failed to buzz if John got that far with a girl.

And he couldn't turn it off because, by law, he had to be on call 24 / 7 given the contractual terms of his practice.

Most of the time, he had to admit, he didn't even get as far as the kiss, or even the drive home.

When girls asked him to talk about his life, he found it awkward to talk about his practice too much, what with patient confidentiality and all that rot, and the rest of his life was Sherlock.

If he talked about Sherlock in direct proportion to the effect Sherlock had on his life, they immediately assumed John was gay for Sherlock, as everyone did, really, which was very frustrating.

So then he would end up focusing on asking her questions about her life if he wasn't too tired to be very attentive, avoiding the subject of his own life almost entirely. And this tactic had been mostly successful to a certain point, until the girl realized how self-absorbed she was being and turned the tables on him.

Only once had this _not_ happened, and it turned out on that day, that the woman was a full-blown narcissistic personality disorder waiting to be diagnosed, and if John hadn't chosen the familiar territory of Angelo's for this particular date (and could pay the bill surreptitiously, sneaking out the back way with the proprietor's blessing on the pretense of going to the loo) he wouldn't have known what to do.

Then there were the times when he was just literally _too tired_ to ask questions rapid-fire, after having been doing something with Sherlock all night such as giggling at a crime scene or preventing the man from exploding the flat, and then he just appeared to be boring because he'd clammed up, and the date inevitably ended awkwardly.

Sometimes the _something_ would happen before the date was even born, with Sherlock dragging John far beyond the bounds of normal excuses.

This happened to be the case most often when John was very keen on a girl, and then Sherlock's case load would magically become infinitely more bloggable and John would follow, follow, follow until he realized he'd rain-checked the girl twelve times and wasn't getting calls anymore from her.

So for a while, John didn't say anything to Sherlock, hoping the pattern was going to change.

But it didn't, and he became increasingly frustrated in more ways than one, and the libidinal energy was souring and becoming anger.

Very unhappy anger.

It didn't manifest externally, however, until one day the woman who had the practice across the hall from him asked for his number. The one he'd been massively crushing on for months. And they'd made a date. And she'd made smouldering eyes at him. And slipped the promise of a condom in his coat-pocket.

She was one hell of a obstetrician.

And as soon as he came home, the condom burning a hole in his wallet, Sherlock's attitude shifted almost imperceptibly. Imperceptibly, but definitely.

As if he _knew_ even before John could say "Hullo, mate, how was your day?"

Of course, that was Sherlock. He _knew_ things.

"Sherlock?"

The great detective tilted his violin down, crossed the legs that had been spread wide across the couch, and looked at him without saying anything.

"I'm going on a date tonight."

John's anger was latent and toxic, and the cheer in his voice was brittle.

"I'm _going_."

Sherlock looked as if he'd been unjustifiably scolded, and his eyes were indignant. "Well, all right, if you say so," he said with a huff, rolling his shoulders back and shoving the base of his violin further under his chin.

Two strokes he made upon the strings, and they were mocking arpeggios.

"Don't," John said, his face pinched, "Don't call me. Don't text me. Don't ask me to go anywhere for the next twenty-four hours, or at least until I come back."

"You always come back," Sherlock pointed out, though he knew it was unnecessary.

"I am...going to do things tonight," said John, "and I am going to tell you now, they are things that you aren't interested in doing."

"You always do things that I'm not interested in doing," said Sherlock with false naivete. "Like going to a job. Like going on dates. Like getting pissed drunk."

"I am not referring to those kinds of things, and _you know it_ ," John replied, as close to snarling as he could possibly get.

"Like fucking?"

He _had_ to come out and say it, of course. John was red in the face and fuming, but at least it'd been _Sherlock_ who'd broken that sensitive barrier, not him.

" _Yes_ ," he said. "Something I've not had the joy of experiencing for a _very_ long time."

"It's not like you don't get sexual pleasure, ever," Sherlock pointed out. "Your spur-of-the-moment evening showers always take longer than morning ones. By fifteen minutes."

It was very uncomfortable to know that Sherlock paid attention to those kinds of things. _Was there no privacy from this man?_

"It's _not_ the same," John bit out, hating that he was having this conversation on so many levels.

"It's not?" Sherlock shrugged. "I wouldn't know. My courtships are always in the course of my work, and never get beyond a certain level."

_I don't doubt it_ , John thought maliciously. _With that cold demeanor? I'm surprised anyone's gotten to_ any _level with you._

"That doesn't mean I begrudge you it," continued Sherlock, looking out the window at the late afternoon sun. "Go, be frivolous, enjoy yourself. Have your precious sex."

John hated that there was so much indifference, tinged with what he thought _might_ be resentment. There was too much ambiguity with Sherlock, by far.

"You really don't care," said John, and felt some amount of discomfiture at this. Was it because he'd thought Sherlock would be angry? Or because he'd _hoped_ it?

"No, not in the slightest. It doesn't concern me, really, John. Go get your rocks off. You'll be more amicable afterwards."

"Thank you." John turned away without another word to go dress for his dinner-date.

And without further ado, soon he was with her, eating at a Cuban restaurant of her choosing, and she was talking and laughing and _sparkling_ like the champagne in their glasses - she said they should celebrate life that night, with a very meaningful look on her face when she'd suggested it - and John really felt like they were on top of the world.

She was more than interested in what trivial details he could share with her about his practice.

About a strange uptake in cases of patients pneumonia, about which he had his suspicions as to the cause. About a woman who brought in her cat because she thought he was a vet. About a mother with seven children who brought them _all_ when it was time for _one_ of them to have an appointment.

She laughed, she was interested, she shared her own stories about a teenage girl with chlamydia who didn't want to tell her mother about her STD or her pregnancy but, when told to take her medication, called said mother and mother got very angry. About an obese mother who bore live, healthy quintuplets and didn't even know she'd been pregnant. About a girl whose husband died during a sperm donation (of a stroke) and demanded she get his donation post-rigor mortis.

And John felt so alive, so sexual, so vibrant. He couldn't wait for dinner to be over.

From the looks of it, neither could she.

They skipped dessert.

And strangely, Sherlock seemed to abide by his promise, because the time came to open the door of the cab for his escort, and he had received no texts all evening.

The time to look into her eyes with the heavy, ponderous question came, and still, no interruption.

The time to engage in a melting, delicious, heated _come-on-up-baby_ kiss came, and still, Sherlock had not intervened.

John was crazy with joy when he waved the cabby away. Nervous, shaking, and heart pounding, he heard static in his ears.

And he closed his eyes and turned to look at her as she fumbled with the keys (just a bit too much champagne, perhaps).

And he put his hand in his pocket to get that secret gift from his wallet.

And he felt the hard warmth of his mobile phone, heard the clinking of his keys and his loose pocket change, felt the smoothness of his leather wallet.

Then he looked up at her, and there she was, inviting him inside, the door open, telling him that she had some ice cream, if he'd like some.

Or they could just go up the stairs and see the color she'd recently painted her bedroom.

All of a sudden, neither sounded very appealing. Panic overtook him, and before he could recognize what was going on in his head, he said, quickly, "Ice cream sounds, erm, good."

Crestfallen, confused, trying to see where the web of sexual tension she'd been crocheting had slipped a knot, she nodded and closed the door behind him and served them both.

It wasn't very good ice cream, John decided as he picked at it. Orange - Pistachio flavor. Cheap quality. Disgusting.

They were watching a movie, one that she'd chosen probably with the hope of getting him in the mood. It wasn't one he liked. In fact, he found it insipid.

When she went to the bathroom, he facilitated his escape excuse.

_Text me in 5 min. Need urgent excuse. Please.  
_

- _JW_

He didn't get a reply immediately, which made him wonder if Sherlock was even aware, awake, or alive.

He'd not put it past Sherlock Holmes to die the moment he needed him.

But to his great relief, when the obstetrician returned from the bathroom, asking him what'd happened in the film while she was gone, just when it was time for him to answer her question, his phone _pinged_.

And it was a text from Sherlock Holmes.

_John, your aunt on landline. Bawling. Another nightmare. Needs you to read aloud your gf's memoirs to her again. Insists it be you. Insists it be now. Sorry to spoil your date._

_-SH_

Of course the story had large gaping holes in it, such as the fact that John had no aunt, they didn't own a landline, and there were no "gf's memoirs" (grandfather's?) to be had.

But there it was, a perfect reason to leave immediately.

"I...I've got to go," said John, and left without even a chaste kiss on the cheek.

He ran down the vacant street until he got to a main road where he could get a cab home to Baker Street.

And he ran up the stairs and collapsed into his armchair as if he'd been in some incredible danger.

Sherlock Holmes just looked at him with his typical cold stare.

"Well?" asked Sherlock before John had adequately caught his breath. "Did you have sex?"

The clinical detachment attached to his words was a far cry from the strange emotions that were in the great detective's eyes.

John shook his head in the negative, wondering what on earth all this meant.

"Did you enjoy yourself?"

_Well, for a while_. But ultimately, in the end, he had not. So he shook his head in the negative again.

"And you _asked_ me to intervene. _Asked_ , John."

The eyes were too intense to look at, and John just put his head in his hands.

"Sherlock?"

The simple word that followed was too loaded to ignore. "...Yes?"

"...How do I _know_ that I'm not gay?"

It was such a deep confession, to admit to be in such confusion, and strangely Sherlock didn't seem inclined to take it as lightly as he might John's other emotions.

"Be empirical, John," replied the detective, standing slowly, his muscles as tense and taut as if he'd spied a bomb on the floor and was afraid that any sudden movement might explode it. "Be _rational_."

"I can't think," said John, "much less be empirical or rational."

"Force yourself," said Sherlock, his voice fascinated and hoarse. He carefully stepped towards John, and in his peripheral vision John could see the detective's eyes were wide with cautious anticipation and his mouth was slightly agape, as if he were suddenly seized with a spasm of deep concentration.

" _Reasoning_ , John. When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever's left, however improbable, _must_ be the truth."

And then John began to cry. Maybe it was because of the alcohol, maybe it was because of Sherlock's strange reaction, maybe it was because of the knowledge that he'd accidentally led on a hot, sexy woman all evening. Maybe it was none of those things. But John couldn't cope with whatever it was, and he was hunched up, his face in his hands, leaning forward in his chair, full of emotions.

"Don't...don't take this the wrong way," Sherlock said softly, dropping to sit on the arm of the chair, and John expected him to follow up with a lecture about some personal defect of his. Or something.

Instead, John felt a sinewy, bony arms flutter gently down upon his shoulders, a hand cupping his left bicep, another hand pressing itself against his chest over his heart, and John realized with shocking clarity that Sherlock Holmes was giving him a _hug_ , of all things.

This knowledge somehow made John cry with greater enthusiasm, and in response, he felt Sherlock begin to move away.

Terrified that the warmth of his friend would disappear, that he'd take the wrong message from his fresh tears, John grasped the hand that touched the place over his heart and held it firmly where it was.

Some time passed, where they just sat there, John wondering about what this all meant, and whether Sherlock's touch meant pity or something unthinkable.

He began to hope for the unthinkable. Especially when he felt a heavy chin on the back of his shoulder, the fibers of hair under his ear, and wetness of silent weeping at the nape of his neck.

"Sherlock?" he asked, tentative, scared. "Are you..."

_Are you crying, too?_ was on the tip of his tongue. _Are you crying because of me?_

_Why?_

He couldn't say any of those things, though.

Sherlock had to break the silence after that.

"Am I what?" he asked with what suspiciously sounded like a sniffle.

John didn't answer. He had his reply.

Two, four, six minutes passed, and Sherlock took a deep breath, inhaling roughly, holding his breath for ten seconds, and breathing out in a controlled fashion.

"I have to apologize, John," he said, and John dared not to move. "In my defense, it was an experiment. And I was _dreadfully_ bored."

_What?_

"Don't speak. In any case, I must say, I didn't think it'd amount to anything. Just a harmless game, at first. A _test_. To see if you _really_ wanted to do what you thought you wanted to do. I was sure one day you'd say, 'screw it, Sherlock, I'm doing my thing, bugger off.'"

The detective breathed in, held it for ten seconds, and breathed out again. He was barely holding himself together, it seemed.

"But you didn't ever say that, John. Every time, you came back before the end of the hunt. And every time, I...I timed it, to see how long it took you to get back. Extra points if you seemed to really like her. Even more if you brought back lipstick samples."

This was a shocking development. John had always had his suspicions about how intrusive and insisting Sherlock's demands had been, but he'd never imagined it was on the magnitude of _this_.

Then again, Sherlock was Sherlock, and John should have expected no less than rigor and exactitude in any interaction. _Everything_ in Sherlock's life was an _experiment._

"But today," the detective confessed, "I saw it had taken such a beating on you. I forget that you're an ordinary person, mostly, and that ordinary people have needs. So...tonight I left you alone."

John absorbed this information for a few minutes, then decided he couldn't be too mad. After all, the experiment was a test of his _will_. And every time, his will had bent towards Sherlock's needs.

Every single stinking time.

"So, what exactly are you apologizing for?" he asked, "being a dick?"

"Don't you see, John?" The man sighed into his shoulder, the hotness of it inspiring uncommon feelings. "Well, I can hardly blame you - I myself didn't realize until now."

John couldn't see what Sherlock was going on about, but he listened.

"John," Sherlock said, "I've _trained_ you, John, To. Have. Homo. Sexual Feelings. For..."

He left 'me' unsaid, but it was crystal.

This was confusing to John, but very disconcerting, and he sat up, shoving Sherlock's hands off him roughly but not pushing the man away, saying, "What in God's name do you mean?"

"Pavlov, John."

This didn't register enough to adequately clarify, and John's expression communicated this rapidly.

It was Sherlock's turn to hide his face in his hands while John looked at him with rapt attention.

"Don't you see?" asked Sherlock urgently, desperate to avoid further explanation, but John's silence was enough of an answer.

He had to face the music.

"I...Itrainedyoutofancyme, John, . You have learned," he said, hyperventilating less now, "to fancy men...or at least, _me_ , because like Pavlov's dogs learned to salivate at the sound of a bell, whenever you experience sexual feelings, you come home and see _me_. And since tonight I didn't disturb you," he went on, just as John began to feel a laugh rumble in his throat, "you panicked because I wasn't disturbing you. You weren't sexually comfortable because I wasn't nearby to try and block you. Don't you see?" he exclaimed frantically, standing as if the chair were on fire, and he watched in horror as John burst into laughter.

"Sherlock! That's so silly and backward I can't even begin to ...to explain where you've gone wrong," John said, finally pinpointing the source of Sherlock's anxiety. "Be logical for a minute, Sherlock, and _think_ about it just a bit more."

Sherlock didn't like to be told he hadn't thought something through enough, so he collapsed back on the arm of the chair with a huff, but he seemed willing to listen.

"You're presuming, first off, that the girls I've gone out with triggered certain feelings. Which means that the _girls_ have triggered those feelings, not you! If we're talking about the bells and the dogs...the bells only made the dogs salivate _after_ being..."

He trailed off, realizing that the detective had a point.

"Wait, so you're the bell, and the girls were the...meat? And my...feelings...are...the salivation?"

"I'm right, you know," said Sherlock, and placed a hand over his eyes in imitation of an exasperated Mycroft. "I have made you _gay_."

"I don't know that I am, not yet," said John quickly, though why he was saying it he didn't know, except to make Sherlock feel better.

_Shite. That's a bit backward._

"Don't bother protesting, John. Your pulse and pupils betray you. You are indubutably attracted to me. I am so..."

Sherlock swallowed harshly, his Adam's apple throbbing.

"...so, so, _so_ sorry."

John just shook his head and leaned forward again. He had to _think._

Something felt so _wrong_ about this whole situation, and he couldn't figure out what on earth it was, except that he was certain that Sherlock's taking the blame for...this...was totally _wrong_.

"It's...it's okay," he said, feeling strange to be the comforter. "I...did you consider that I might have been gay, anyway? Before I met you?"

"You weren't," said Sherlock, "though I'm rather aware that you've had a sexless life since you returned from the war, at the very least."

"And pretty much during," said John quietly. The times his superiors had forced his pants down didn't count. "And before that...it was just uni. And so much goes on at uni, it's not worth trying to sort it all out, even years later."

Sherlock didn't seem too interested, but asked perfunctorily, "Did you have relations at uni?"

"Loads." John thought he'd keep it concise. "Women _and_ men."

"I see." The reply was dubious.

"Sherlock," John said, seeing many things in his life click into place in an instant.

_Fact_. He'd had sex with men before. At uni. And liked it.

_Fact._ He'd suppressed these pleasant experiences to survive in the army.

(It wasn't difficult to do when there were so many in the army who forced the smaller, meeker men to do their bidding. Almost daily. Those were Unpleasant Experiences.)

_Fact_. He'd not been interested in anyone of any gender after the war. _Until_ he moved into Baker Street. Then, something had been activated again. But he didn't know _why_. He'd just put it down to being closer to happy than he'd been before. But was it _just_ that?

_Fact_. Sherlock said that his eyes and hearbeat betrayed a secret attraction. An attraction that John could, at the moment, acutely sense.

The question was, was it reciprocated?

John looked at his flatmate and couldn't tell. The other man was still sitting, dejected, unhappy, his hands fiercely wiping away the wetness on his face that mysteriously seeped.

Was it because of guilt at a human experiment gone horribly wrong, a crisis of Frankenstein? Or was it an issue of conflicted affection, a crisis of Pygmalion?

John couldn't tell.

He needed to do _something_ about the intense fear and doubt that he saw etching itself across Sherlock's body, so close to how he looked at Baskerville.

So he decided to try his own experiment.

He stood.

He sat next to Sherlock on the arm of the chair.

He placed his head on Sherlock's bony shoulder.

He grasped Sherlock's fidgeting left hand with his right hand.

He placed a placating hand of healing on Sherlock's jumpy left leg.

He approached Sherlock's face slowly, breathing deep breaths so that Sherlock would know where he was and what he was doing every moment, and wouldn't be spooked.

He hesitated and let his breath warm the place on Sherlock's cheek before he pressed his lips down.

And Sherlock didn't leap away, wasn't spooked, wasn't...wasn't _anything_ , it seemed at first.

"It's not real, John," said Sherlock, between bitten teeth. "It's not real. Don't do anything you'll regret later."

"Do you want me to stop?" asked John, more sure of himself than he'd been in a long time.

If Sherlock had said _yes_ , it would have been a lie, John was sure, and Sherlock only lied as a means of getting at the truth.

Which meant that in this case, lying would have been meaningless. The truth was already known.

So Sherlock said nothing, his muscles tense, and John sighed.

John did have needs, and wants, yes, and he wanted and needed these needs and wants fulfilled, yes.

But not with an obstetrician. _Oh God, that sounds horrible in more way than one._

With Sherlock. For better or for worse.

At least he wanted to try.

"I don't know what you think is real, Sherlock. I just know what _I_ think is real. And at the moment, I think my pupils are dilated and my pulse is quick, and I think I want to kiss you. And I am pretty sure all those things are real. If...if those aren't real for you too, right now, I'll let you be, but..."

He drew a cold hand up to feel for Sherlock's pulse in his neck, and it was beating so fast that John almost thought of calling a medical emergency.

Except he knew what Sherlock's resting pulse normally was. And like he was at everything else in life, Sherlock Holmes was faster than anyone else. Even in terms of his physiology.

"John."

It was a solemn pleading for forgiveness, that one word. And a request - a request to not only forgive but to accept.

And John knew he'd be asked for his forgiveness more than once over the course of their lives, especially if they began this kind of journey.

But at least for the moment, John could accept. He imagined he would grant anything Sherlock asked of him. Grumpily, resistantly, and sometimes joyously. But always.

"Can...can we try, Sherlock?"

He turned the detective's head so that they met each others' eyes.

And they gazed at each other for many minutes, biting their lips, swallowing thickly, blinking with desperate reluctance.

And finally.

Finally.

Finally,

Sherlock answered.

" _Yes_."

John smiled, and immediately embraced his friend, pressing his ear to the other man's chest. "You're a selfish bastard, you know that, right?"

It was a fond chastisement. Meant to break the tension.

"So you tell me."

They both laughed, quietly, respectfully, as if they had made a sanctuary of their Baker Street abode.

Perhaps that's what they had been doing, John thought.

Maybe they'd been building a home together, this whole time, and they hadn't even known it.

"You know, Sherlock," he added, not moving at all, "you didn't do this to me. Not at all."

"Explain." Sherlock seemed to have reestablished emotional homeostasis, but actually was returning the embrace, clutching his blogger to him tightly.

Such urgency probably meant that Sherlock was just as scaredas John was.

Scared that this all wasn't _real_.

But other than the strength of his grasp, there was no indication of how Sherlock felt at the moment anywhere in his demeanor.

John admired this ability to put aside emotions at will, but it wasn't exactly a life-or-death crisis.

Sherlock needed to learn how to _feel_.

And sitting in their own living-room on a dreary foggy night with nothing else to do seemed to be a silly time to put his _feelings_ aside.

"The dogs didn't get to choose whether or not they heard the bell," said John, realizing anew how strange and miraculous this was, being wrapped in Sherlock's arms. Where was the so-called sociopath of old? "I chose whether or not I'd come home."

"But I was manipulative," Sherlock replied, and there was a raw heartbroken sorrow behind those words of regret.

Sherlock's regret was _so_ real.

"And I forgive you for being manipulative," John said, laying another slow, gentle kiss on Sherlock's cheek.

"Why?" asked Sherlock.

"Because it was _me_ who walked through the door."


	12. A Violin Playing a Viola Concerto

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Who's Martha?" John got a Valentine's card from a new girlfriend. Sherlock's too curious for his own good. Prompt from LJ. Very silly. Recommended for musicians. Not slash.

**Gigue in C Major**

"Who's Martha?" asked Sherlock while John was commencing the washing-up. He was balancing his chair on its back two legs, his fingers steepled and his restless legs pulsing with movement as his feet bounced against the kitchen wall, rocking the chair backwards and forwards.

A pause. A sigh. A cringe. All of frustration. John leaned forward, his elbow on the counter, his eyes out the window, his shoulders sagging.

"All right, you got me. How did you find out?"

"I may not care about St. Valentine's Day, John, but neither am I oblivious to it. Many crimes of passion take place before, during, and after the holiday."

Sherlock felt like a violin-bow, balancing on one string, in constant peril of falling and making a screeching noise in an accidental whisper across more than one string without the proper intent. But in control of itself, _oh_ , always in control of itself. And in control of the people who could hear its music.

"So in other words, you found the card." John picked up another dish and set to scrubbing again.

"Elementary, my dear John. _To John, from Martha, with love and kisses._ And you left the roses to which said card was attached at work. To prevent me from knowing about her."

"Yeah, well, I guess that didn't work." John finished rinsing the sink and began to rinse the grease, grime, and bubbles off his hands. "Where'd you find it, anyway...I thought it was in my-"

Sherlock interrupted with a barking laugh. Violins could pierce peoples' ears with the sharpness of their singing. "-John, do you _really_ believe that your little hoarde of sentimental things would be safe from me in the _bathroom cupboard?"_

Turning off the water, John observed meekly, "Well, there's nothing in there but cleaning supplies, Sherlock, and God knows you don't care about cleaning. I didn't think you'd notice."

Violins could be low, too, not as deep as a cello but still dark and rich."Didn't think I'd notice that the rim of an infrequently-used cabinet would suddenly be devoid of dust?"

"Um-"

"-Never forget about dust, John," Sherlock said, twirling his fingers in the air to emphasize his point. Fingers limber enough to dance across the fingerboard of a violin like stars sparkling in the sky. "Dust is _eloquent_."

John didn't say anything to that, instead taking a dishtowel and wiping up the water he'd slopped onto the counter and floor.

"And it's a good thing I'm not a blackmailer," Sherlock continued, with some humor in his voice. Violins could, after all, play Dvorak. "I don't think you realize that the kinds of things you're keeping in there would make a man like Charles Augustus Milverton squeal like a little girl given a pony."

If the Scarlet Pimpernel had been named such because of his ability to blush, John would have been in close competition for the moniker at that moment as he paused, paralyzed in the process of his wiping-up.

"Sherlock, tell me you didn't look at the flash-drive you found down there."

The detective's serpentine smile assured John that this private space had been violated as well. Haydn would have been an appropriate author for a symphony dedicated to the Scarlet Pimpernel.

"Don't _worry_ , John. I found it all rather dull after a few entries. I only skimmed the first thousand words or so."

Illustrating his indifference, and perhaps because he needed to put up a protective barrier of some nature, Sherlock got out his mobile and began to type furiously in lieu of playing a stretch of Paganini's most virtuosic work as John, flabbergasted and humiliated, stood straight and struggled to respond coherently.

" _...Christ_ , Sherlock, you never-"

"-if you hadn't created the content in the first place, I'd never have read it." Sherlock's voice was as taunting as a fermata.

"That was _private_ , Sherlock! My therapist told me to write it. To let out latent sexual energy out and all that rot."

"If your therapist told you to begin a serial shooting spree 'to let out latent sexual energy', would you do _that?_ Guns are phallic." _So are violins_. _Arguably._

John grasped his hair with one hand in aggravation and reached out vaguely to put the dishtowel on the counter, though it missed and landed in the rubbish bin. He stooped to pick it out again with two fingers.

"Sherlock. That sounds like a _wonderful_ idea right about now. How about I start with my nosy _git_ of a flatmate?"

The dishtowel was covered in coffee grounds, and John threw it at Sherlock, who, without looking up from his mobile, caught the damp thing in one hand. Coffee grounds scattered like termite droppings across the linoleum. John'd sweep it up later. Maybe. He was a cello, they did the background work.

"I wonder if the essential oils in coffee grounds would preserve a body?" Sherlock mused, lazily changing the subject by segueing into an intriguing cadenza. "They use caffeine in facial rejuvenation formulas for middle-aged women. Might a corpse disposed of in the skip and covered in coffee grounds appear to have died at a later time than a body that wasn't covered in coffee grounds?"

John sat in the other chair and leaned on the table, putting his head in his hands. His voice was grounding, like the orchestra reminding him that it was time to descend from the spiralling, frantic beauty of fifth, sixth, seventh position. "You're impossible, Sherlock."

"By the way," he purred, suggesting his way back up the scale despite himself, "I wouldn't have looked in your 'secret stash' if you hadn't been acting so secretive lately. Your patterns are so regular, John, any time you deviate from them, it's obvious what's going on."

John sighed. "I'm sorry I didn't tell you, Sherlock...but I really _like_ the woman."

Sherlock said nothing, taking a rest of a few measures to put down his mobile in respect to John's feelings. He found love tedious, but their last argument had centered around Sherlock being too inattentive in these kinds of conversations, so he listened with forced patience.

"She's...she's just exceptional in so many ways, Sherlock," John continued, propping his chin upon his hands and looking off towards the door of the flat, as if expecting said Martha to waltz in any minute. "I mean, she's kind, considerate, and thoughtful - more than I can say for _you_ , I might add - and she makes an effort, you know. And she _is_ an appropriate age," he added, as if anticipating Sherlock's protestation to that effect, "she's only seven years older than me. Which isn't a lot, you know, at my age."

"Fine," said Sherlock, shrugging. He hated to be reminded that John was six years older than him. It made mortality seem that much _closer_. And it wasn't as if the melody, clumsily carried as it was by the cellos, was that exciting to the audience. "Continue."

"And...she cooks, you know?" John sighed. "I like that. There's only so much I can do in the kitchen. She...she can _bake_. Nobody _bakes_ anymore." He paused, a wistful smile forming on his lips. "And I have to say, fresh scones or biscuits once in a while _is_ nice."

"Noted. Go on." This conversation was bordering on tedious. How many times could they repeat the same mantra of notes?

"And, you know, she's really got a keen mind. All in all, she's capable of much more than you imagine, I expect," John said in reluctant conclusion. "Moreover, she's a really nice shag. Surprisingly so."

"As you very enthusiastically described on your memory stick," Sherlock said with a grin. He decided it was time to leap back into the fray, to give some direction to the music of the conversation that was steadily driving itself into the ground with the thumping of alberti bass.

"You said you didn't read that much," John said with an unhappy pout, though he was past the point of being offended.

"A little goes a long way." They were in call and response mode as he alerted the slower instrument to his existence and superiority.

"For _you,_ maybe."

"Dear, dear, John." He couldn't resist a snarky deviation from the notes on the page, his pitch rising higher, higher, higher. "If that's what you think your problem is, go prescribe yourself some virility medication. Though from what I hear in the shower some mornings-"

"- _Sherlock_." It was a warning that he was going too far, and needed to come down from the higher positions once again lest the audience's ears begin to bleed. Sherlock continued to bounce on the back legs of the chair, thinking how he might convince John to give up his hunt for _amour_ this time.

"Fine," he said, changing dramatically to the lower registers as he began to seduce the rest of the orchestra again, "You're more than capable of making your own decisions, John. Who knows," Sherlock continued, already dancing in the middle strings again, "maybe this older woman with short blonde hair, a passion for doctor - nurse roleplay in the bedroom, favoritism towards -"

(He grabbed John's rumpled jacket from the table and pressed it to his face to smell it, tipping the chair backward even more. It was time for an unexpected note, á la Bartok.)

"-Kasbah Nights...same as Mrs. Hudson uses, John..."

It was familiar territory for him, the violinist, even if it surprised the audience, and he threw the jacket back at John with a shove.

He was quickly back on track, gliding up a scale in a crescendo of perpetual motion. "...who is also an avid user of natural supplements and has what you describe to be exceptional cooking skills - maybe _she_ will be what finally settles you down, John. Go get married, John. Have a family if she's not past menopause, or don't have a family and just have rousing sex the rest of your life. Go review your bingo slang. Go have a _boring_ , safe life. Go get fat. Leave Baker Street. What's stopping you?"

He let the echos of the well-defined tenutos speak for themselves.

John was looking more perplexed than usual, and Sherlock put it down to his unusual vehemence. It was all reverse psychology, like the piece by Mozart that, when turned upside-down, was a duet part, and Sherlock was chuckling inside at the cleverness of the trick.

John'd recant. He'd come to his senses sooner or later. Or else this lady, no more interesting than a harp, would toss him, same as all the other ones. Or maybe she'd get too clingy - as older women (and harps) were wont to do - and John would toss her. And then the cello could get back to practicing with the violin, undisturbed by further distraction of unrelenting, bird-songlike pizzacato.

Or the two of them would stay together forever, but Sherlock didn't take this possibility seriously. Violins were the leaders of orchestras, not harps.

"Leaving Baker Street," said John carefully, "is the last thing I'd do, Sherlock."

It was the perfect supporting phrase for another climbing solo.

"Well, I'm glad to know that!" Sherlock said, clapping his hands together in an expression of contained delight. "So she'll be moving in with us? That means no children then, I expect. Well, I hope you don't mind my practicing violin while you shag, I don't like to listen to that sort of thing, you know."

"No," John said, his tone suspiciously thoughtful, "no children."

He was still supporting, as always, with the sawing of alberti bass that shone through any moment that Sherlock paused for breath.

"I think this might actually work out, John," Sherlock said with false enthusiasm, hating the woman already now that he knew John was serious enough with her that she'd soon be a live-in. "When do I get to meet this exciting woman?"

The look of deep consternation on John's face broke at this moment, and John, in a moment of clarity, began to laugh, bitter and painful and low and hiding his face with his hand.

This was a break from the music on _John's_ part. Cellos didn't usually burst into spontaneous solos. What was going on here?

"Sherlock, you don't get it."

He didn't. He put down his metaphorical violin with a squawk. "Don't get _what?_ "

"Who Martha Is."

Sherlock nodded. He suspiciously began to check if his notes were out of tune. "Of course, this whole conversation began with me asking, 'who is Marth-"

The last syllable went unsaid as he met John's eyes, and, all of a sudden, he paled.

He'd been playing a viola concerto. _On_ _his violin!_

" _Not_."

He couldn't bring himself to say it. To admit that he'd been so fooled. It was his fault for not reading the music, which was clearly in contra-alto clef, now that he looked at it.

" _NOT_."

John nodded the affirmative. He had just realized the perplexing musical problem himself. There aren't many viola concertos in the world, and it took him by surprise, too.

" _NOT!"_

Sherlock's violin began to cry at the abuse it'd endured.

"Yes!"

" _In love?"_ Sherlock exclaimed, and he lost control of the chair he was rocking in, and he tipped over backwards onto the floor. _That's what hadn't been right._

"You alright?" asked John, who seemed as if he'd been expecting Sherlock to fall for a while. He stood over his friend and smiled feebly.

" _In LOVE!"_ Tipping over was irrelevant. Sherlock stared at the ceiling with a thousand things rushing through his head. Most of them notes that he'd memorized by ear.

"I'm afraid it's true."

"She sent you flowers at the _surgery!"  
_

It was so very clear in retrospect; that was why he'd had to go to such undue lengths on the higher strings, to make up for the fact that he'd been missing the lower one.

"I guess she didn't want to-"

"-How _long_ , John?" Sherlock was sitting up, standing, leaving the chair unrighted, pacing across the floor with manic energy. He was frantically practicing his Wohlfahrt at speeds previously unheard by human ears in an attempt to reassure himself that he was a violinist, _not_ a violist. "How _LONG?_ " he yelled in a screeching g sharp in John's face when his flatmate didn't reply quickly enough.

"A while, now," replied John quietly. "Ever since she realized that I wasn't gay."

"Why didn't you _tell me_ in a more _straightforward_ fashion?" Sherlock demanded, grabbing John's jacket and throwing it on the floor in frustration, just for the sake of throwing something. He was realizing that Wohlfahrt _did_ write a book for viola, too.

"To be fair, you _did_ have _more_ than enough information to figure it out," John said huffily, rescuing his jacket from under Sherlock's stomping foot, "I thought this whole time you knew."

"How _could_ I know!" Sherlock exclaimed, though in truth his mind was reverberating like a violin string with the opposite feeling. _How could I_ ** _not_** _know?_

"You were the one responsible for getting her husband _executed,_ Sherlock," John said, though Sherlock more than knew that. "I assumed that, given the circumstances-"

"-John, _never_ assume _anything!_ Haven't I taught you that by now?" He was furiously applying rosin, as if that would solve the problem at hand.

"Well, yes, Sherlock, but how was I to know that this would be another case like that of Lestrade?"

Sherlock grabbed John's coat from his friend's hands and threw it on the ground again, viciously. He might need to change his strings after sullying them so. "Because you, Mycroft, and Molly Hooper are the _only_ people on earth that I ever address on a first-name basis!"

John just shook his head, both at the way his jacket was being abused and at the fact that Sherlock was so brilliant yet such an _idiot_. "Way to treat the people that put up with you, Sherlock. Hasn't it ever occurred to you that people _like_ hearing their first names?"

There was a brisk but polite knock at the door, and Mrs. Hudson's customary, soft _yoo-hoo_ was heard as she let herself in without waiting to be admitted. It was as sweet and seductive as a clarinet. Worse than a harp. "Hello, boys, I thought I heard more noise than usual, so I thought I'd come up and see-"

Sherlock, in the meantime, had slipped to the floor like a wet noodle, or a broken violin string, and he interrupted in a tired voice. "-Your name is _Martha?_ "

"Why, of course dear. Didn't you know?"

She looked at John with a _whats-going-on-here_ sort of look, and the doctor replied quietly, "He finally figured it out."

"How much?" she asked pointedly.

"All," he replied.

"Oh." She smiled. "Good. Well, I hope the brunt of the storm's passed. How'd it get out?"

John was careful to omit the juicy parts of the story. "...The Valentine card you sent with those roses. Stupidly, I brought it home with me."

"Oh. Well, that was rather silly thing to do, dear." She sidled up to John and put her arms around his neck. It was clear that they'd been making music together for some time, and were very comfortable in duets now.

"It was a silly thing to send me flowers." He put his hands on her waist and pecked her on the cheek, exchanging with her the melody for harmony.

"It was a silly thing to get me that autographed book by Connie Price and bring a refill of my herbal soothers before I asked." She leaned her head on his shoulder, where it seemed to rest perfectly. Their notes seemed to intertwine with seamless grace.

"Well, I guess we're just a couple of silly people," said John in a way that Sherlock had never before heard him speak, the glossy sheen of the cello in love.

"I guess so," agreed Martha Hudson in gentle agreement, and the two of them touched noses, staring into each others' eyes as their notes faded into a companionable silence.

Sherlock snapped at that moment like a violin exposed to freezing cold, closing his eyes tight against the sight. "Never _guess_ ," he hissed, perhaps more to himself than to his friend and landlady. "If you must, at least _hypothesize!_ "

"Though, I must say," Martha Hudson said, ignoring Sherlock's interjection, warmly breathing into the nape of the cello-player's neck, "half the fun's gone now that Sherlock knows. Sneaking about was so _thrilling_."

"Who says we can't still sneak about?" John replied, pinching her bum in a very coy fashion, to her single-reed coo of delight.

Sherlock felt like he was going to faint and clatter all over the floor in a million different violin-pieces...a scroll here, a finger-board there, tuning pegs somewhere over here, a bridge somewhere over there, horsehair everywhere...

"I'm going to spew," he said, almost crawling to the loo. It was time to disassemble himself. Hopefully, he thought, someone named Antonio Stradivari would put him back together.

Then again, he realized as he dry-heaved into the porcelain goddess, at least the clarinet wasn't an instrument that would compete with the authority of the violins, like a flute or a harp might.

Indeed, the clarinet was rather complementary. An elementary choice of companion for his favorite celloist.

Maybe they could form a solid trio?

And, maybe, if he couldn't get himself back into the shape of a Stradivarius, maybe he could be rebuilt into something a little more flexible. A five-string violin / viola?

Maybe?

* * *

"After the revelation of Lestrade's first name, Sherlock realises that Mrs Hudson's first name might not be Mrs. Show me how he finds out what her first name is?"

Prompt from LJ on Sherlockbbc_fic by Anonymous on Prompting Part XXVI (page 5).

Oh god I had too much fun making this into a near-piece of music.


	13. Scotch Affair

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John was taken aback, and was slightly embarrassed at the sight of Sherlock in a kilt. Prompt from LJ. Silly. Mycroft has an appearance.

**Gigue in B Major  
**

It always amazed John what Sherlock got into his head to do, even if his friend's actions typically followed logic. Albeit, perhaps that was what surprised John the most; Sherlock was logical _to the letter_ , but his adherence to logic was such that he had no qualms whatsoever in doing the most _impossible_ things.

Things that included acquiring and wearing the marching costume of a pipe major.

John was taken aback, and was slightly embarrassed at the sight of Sherlock in a kilt.

"Sherlock, what are you doing?"

This question clearly did not warrant an explanation; Sherlock profoundly walked past with great, magnificent strides, oblivious to John's _feelings,_ hefting the weight of the Great Highland Bagpipes from one arm to the other.

"Hullo, John," was all he said, collapsing on his couch and depositing (with great disrespect) the instrument on the table.

John was perplexed. "Hullo yourself. _What_ on earth are you wearing?"

"I was at a funeral."

"You're not in the armed forces. Why the uniform?"

"Who says I'm _not_? Anyway, it was something for Mycroft."

John shook his head, realizing that this was as elaborate an explanation as he was going to get.

"I don't know that Mycroft would insist on a _kilt_ get-up, for Chris'sakes," he muttered, turning back to his laptop to pay attention to his mail again.

"Don't you?"

Sherlock ripped off the garment, to John's sharp intake of breath and a scolding that burned the tip of his tongue, but thankfully was wearing underpants. He also was staring at John, as if expecting an answer to his question.

Bemused and a little perturbed, John quickly shook his head. "No, I don't, and I don't _want_ to know, Sherlock."

"Mycroft has a-" Sherlock began to say, presuming that John was curious, but this was not the case, so John quickly interrupted.

"-Can you actually play that thing?" he asked, gesturing to the pipes on the table.

"Yes," replied Sherlock, "badly. I picked it up this morning. But you're-"

"-Prove it!" said John, determined not to let Sherlock change the subject back to kilts and Mycroft.

They met each others' eyes, gauging each other, and Sherlock yielded, the temptation to prove a point stronger than that of dishing out some nasty information about his brother.

"Fine," he said, mock-pouting, and there, in half a military dress uniform, he sat up straight on the edge of the couch and began to play the bagpipes.

* * *

Earlier, Mycroft was standing in the middle of a cemetery. Anthea's great-uncle, a founding member of the Diogenes Club, had passed away. Normally he wouldn't be bothered to actually be present at such a thing as a funeral. He found them tedious, and usually he would say that he'd be out of the country the day of and send an enormous bouquet instead. But this was Anthea's relative, and even though she knew he lied - a _lot_ \- he liked to pretend that he respected her more than other people.

_Pretend_ because no matter how capable she was with her fingers - in many ways - he had virtually no respect for anyone on the face of the earth, for everyone was human, and humans were inherently not respectable. Especially Joseph Burnwether, who'd been a very sly, very eccentric old dog. Mycroft was no more fond of him than he was of anyone else in the British parliament, but he was more suspicious of Burnwether than most. Hence why Mycroft had offered, so many years ago, to give him a substantial investment opportunity as the Diogenes Club - tie the man down somewhere he could see him.

But now the man was really dead, and Mycroft, while suspicious of the shrewd Anthea who had been her great-uncle's favorite, knew that another quiet threat to the sanctity of the government was gone. Now all that was left to carry out the will of the dead were a few sharp estate lawyers that could, with ease and adequate financial resources, be shooed away back into whatever dark corners from which they emerged.

And that would be that, Mycroft thought, swinging his umbrella with one brief sweep of celebration.

Mycroft didn't usually attend funerals, but he'd have not missed this one for the world. He didn't even mind that he had to wear a kilt, as all the invitations had requested the men do to honor Burnwether's firm attachment to his Celtic heritage. After all, the women were similarly asked to wear abonye dress, and moreover, it was far from an outlandish request, and the family intended to honor it, Anthea had divulged. And there she was, some distance away, sniffing away at a handkerchief in the front row with a velvet bodice, a tartan sash, and Ghillie brogues, her cell phone (Mycroft knew) hiding down her shirt, between her breasts.

As poems by Robert Burns began to be read aloud by an actor on stage, Mycroft primly dusted the immaculate tartan apron of the garment and did his best to swallow a yawn.

He heard someone approaching across the lawn towards him, where he stood near the back of the gathering, and he turned just enough to recognize his brother, Sherlock.

"Hullo, Mycroft," whispered Sherlock, holding a cup of pink _something_ that might have been lemonade but might _also_ have been something else.

"What are you doing here?" asked Mycroft in a hissing whisper, though he was half afraid of the answer.

"You said you wanted an update on the Faenrith case," said Sherlock, as if it were obvious.

"Yes, but now is _hardly_ appropriate timing."

A pause.

"Since when do you actually _bother_ with giving me the updates I request, dear brother?"

"Since Morton Selnick had a speaking engagement at a funeral you're attending," the consulting detective replied, blatantly putting fieldglasses to his eyes and looking at the actor reading the poems.

Mycroft summoned patience and smiled condescendingly. "You never _stop_ , do you, brother?"

"Why?" Sherlock didn't even look at him, his gaze still trained upon the stage. "Does it matter?"

"To the rest of the world, Sherlock, yes, little things like tact and appropriateness _do_ matter."

Not that they mattered to Mycroft, not really; it just made things so _easy_ for him when people conformed to social norms and niceties. It made them so _manageable_. Unfortunately, Sherlock was a Holmes, and therefore could not be _managed_. At least, not easily.

"Oh! Damn." Sherlock put his glasses away and tugged at his lapels; the dress-coat and kilt he was wearing were rather too large for him, and they looked uncomfortably familiar. Mycroft, with some horror, realized that his brother had been in his closet recently.

Mycroft had a few dress kilts, in varying sizes, because they did come in handy sometimes, for attending the Highland games and the National Dances and things. Besides, once he'd had them made, why dispose of them? Custom did not come inexpensive, and his great fear was that he'd gain the weight back despite the surgery. He kept all his old clothes.

But that didn't mean that Sherlock had a right to them.

"Sherlock?"

"Save your scolding, Mycroft." His brother was pressing some documents into his hands and, at the same time, keeping eyes trained on the speaker on stage. "That man is a robber and a kidnapper."

"Do you have a warrant? Or even proof?"

These were fruitless questions, of course, though responsible.

"Do I _need_ proof?" Sherlock bit back.

Of course that question didn't deserve an answer, so Mycroft turned his head as if he'd not heard.

"I'm going," said Sherlock, and suited the action to the words, lazing towards the stage as Selnick descended with polite applause.

As he watched his brother accost the suspect and forcefully draw the other man into the shadows of the nearby willow trees, Mycroft couldn't help but note how dashing Sherlock looked in red tartan.

Or how quaint he looked with the bagpipes strapped to his shoulder. _Those_ weren't from Mycroft's closet.

* * *

Later, Sherlock received a text.

_Keep_ _it._

_-MH_

Sherlock shrugged; he'd not been meaning to return the get-up anyway. Too much of a bother. If Mycroft wanted it back, well, Mycroft knew where to look.

John was in the process of tidying things up, a half-hearted and mostly useless effort. His hands lingered on the red tartan.

"Could I...Sherlock, do you think I might..."

Sherlock glared at John for being uninterestingly fascinated with a piece of fabric.

"What? You want to try it on? Be my guest. Just don't be a nuisance about it."

With this blessing, John turned a little red, saying, "Erm, thank you, I guess," before going to the bathroom.

A few minutes later, he heard a warble from behind a closed door. "Sherlock was there...a hat or sash or something?"

"Lost it."

"But you didn't lose the bagpipes," John said, emerging in the kilt (more impressive than the accompanying rumpled oatmeal sweater) with an indescribable look on his face. He was delighting in dress-up too much, Sherlock thought, but whatever. He got a secret exhilaration from it, too.

John approached him. "How do I look?"

Sherlock replied flatly, otherwise engaged, "You look like John in a kilt."

" _Thanks_ ," John replied with overemphasis, turning around to get a glance of himself in the wall-mirror. "Do the pleats go in the front or the back?"

"Back," said Sherlock.

The two of them caught each others' glance, and both laughed, a little awkwardly.

Sherlock's phone beeped.

_Actually, I want it back. With John in it. Ho ho._

_-MH_

"What's that?" asked John, too interested at the most inept times.

"Nothing," Sherlock said with a grimace, wondering where the newest cameras had been installed. He'd uprooted two in the past month, and was getting rather sick of the intrusions. "Just my brother."

* * *

"So... something with kilts please ^_^ I just want to see/read about everyone wearing kilts. Not even kilt!porn. Just... wearing kilts. I can't even think of plausible reason. I don't even care about reason. I just want everyone in kilts XD Even Mycroft! No... _especially_ Mycroft. Dem legs XD"

Prompt from LJ on Sherlockbbc_fic by Anonymous on Prompting Part XXVI.


	14. Melatonin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock returns abruptly from a case and is very intent on going to sleep, notwithstanding a nosy John who does NOT respect the body's need to manufacture certain sleep-inducing hormones. Based on prompt from LJ: "I'd just love some sleepy, sleepy Sherlock fic please? Warm and fluffy and snoozy. Yum yum, etc." Oneshot. Preromance.

**Gigue in A Major**

A fresh breath of wind entered the flat at 221b, and John briskly sat up to pretend that he hadn't been snoozing beneath the newspaper.

Sherlock was home, as the sudden sharp breeze from the window testified, and John heard the squelching of wet rubber-soled shoes, the dropping of something metallic and heavy on the wooden floor - perhaps a torch - and the light shiver of pants collecting in a puddle of fabric, this symphony concluded by the wheezing of bedsprings and the rustle of the messy bedclothes.

It was the first time he'd been home in three whole days.

"Sherlock?"

His legs were asleep, but he lugged himself up and set the paper aside, turned the telly off (it'd been on for the company), and trundled over to greet his room-mate and close the door (to prevent an unwanted sighting of a naked Sherlock sprawled across the bed in the gentle light of morning).

"Don't pretend you've been waiting up for me," he heard a mumble as he approached the doorjamb, and he laughed softly in response.

"I admit I dozed off just now, but only because I've been staying wakeful ever since you got that call. Not a word, Sherlock?"

"...You weren't _really_ worried."

"Well, you're right, _worried_ isn't the word. _Concerned_ , yes, Sherlock. Just...send a text once in a while. I know you can take care of yourself, but God, you get yourself into such situations...I can't help but think the worst sometimes."

"I didn't think it was necessary. And I had no service. Abroad."

"Where?"

"Pakistan."

"Dare I ask?"

"Do you?"

John sighed. "Not really. Just...consider yourself told. Erm, told that I was concerned and that I expect you to let me know that you're still alive when you're gone for over twenty-four hours. And gone all the way to Pakistan, Christ..."

"-How long was I gone?"

"...over twenty-four hours, which is what I mean, Sherlock. You don't even _think_ about these things, do you?"

"Why, does it matter?"

"Yes, it does bloody matter, Sherlock."

"Is this conversation going to be much longer? You might as well come in so I don't have to sit like this."

"Sit like what?" John peered into the darkness of the room, illuminated only by the glow of the recently-discarded blackberry on the dresser.

"On my elbow."

"That doesn't clarify much."

Sherlock didn't seem to care. "If you're not done with your lecture, _come in_ and close the door, or if you're done, _leave_ and close the door. Either way, close the door. Every second it's open is a second I'm not producing melatonin."

With reluctant haste, John stepped in and closed the door.

"Put a towel under it," said Sherlock, more muffled; apparently he was no longer sitting 'on (his) elbow' and was instead speaking into the pillow, or comforter, or something.

"Put a towel under it?" asked John, unnecessarily but compliant as he made a movement to grasp the handle and leave in search of a towel, since there was no hope of finding anything in the mess that was Sherlock's bedroom.

"No," hissed Sherlock, "don't you dare open it again."

"All right," John replied, a little perplexed until something floppy and fabricky flew across the room and landed on his shoulder. "Are...is this a Victorian _nightshirt?_ " he asked incredulously, holding it up and trying to discern what on earth it was.

"Eyes take twenty minutes to adjust to night vision, John. And don't be daft; it's a very modern peasant dress."

"What are you doing with a peasant dress, modern or otherwise, Sherlock?"

"...it was for a case. Just do me a favor and _stuff it under the door_ already!"

Deciding that waiting any longer might put some body part or other of his at risk, John complied, nudged the garment into the crack between the bottom of the door and the floor until only a minimal amount of light could get through, and waited for further instruction.

And waited for further instruction.

And waited for further instruction.

Until he realized that he wasn't going to be getting any further instruction, not for a few hours anyway.

"Sherlock?" he asked, quietly, because he really _didn't_ want to wake the great detective. Sleep was uncommon medicine, and God knew Sherlock's 'vessel' or 'appendix' of a body could use it after days of continuous abuse.

Still, John also fancied sleep, and standing in the entryway of Sherlock's room until the detective awoke again wasn't an appealing course of action.

"Sherlock?"

Deciding that his room-mate was enough asleep to open the door enough to escape, John made a motion to grab the handle.

"Do I _have_ to repeat myself?" came Sherlock's voice, firm despite the faintest tinge of grogginess that made it a trifle whingy.

"So what do I do?"

"I don't care. Whatever. Just don't open that door."

It was clear that Sherlock was perilously close to sleep at this point, as his voice was getting progressively less authoritative, and John decided to wait until he could move an inch without being noticed.

Five minutes passed, and his bare feet were getting cold, so he wiggled his toes a little.

"Don't even think about it," Sherlock stated, as perceptive as a cat.

"Is it noise or light that you want to avoid?" asked John, "Because as it happens, I find breathing very exciting."

"Light. But do shut up anyway."

John was beginning to see better now, and he could identify Sherlock's form, long legs emerging from the mess of blankets in which he was otherwise cocooned, and it occurred to him that his friend looked very vulnerable, childlike, and alone. Why else would the man hug himself so tightly, or wear so little to sleep, if not to embrace every tactile sensation from a secondary source, even if said source was no more than a blanket?

"I can hear you thinking," said Sherlock. "If you stop looking at me, you'll stop psychoanalyzing me. You're probably wrong, anyway."

John sighed. "So, what do you suggest?"

"Lie down. Then you'll have nothing but the ceiling to look at. And sadly, aside from the water-stain that is a better map of the London underground than what the authorities publish, it's boring."

John completely missed all the words that followed the first two, however: _lie down_.

"What? Lie down? On your _bed_?" John asked with such vehement scorn that he could hear the walls resonating with echoes of subtext: _I'mnotgayI'mnotgayI'mnotgayI'mnotgay_ _I'mnotgayI'mnotgayI'mnotgayI'mnotgay_ _I'mnotgayI'mnotgayI'mnotgayI'mnotgay_...

"Well, what of it?" asked Sherlock, so damn _practical_ , as always. "You're not gay. I'm asexual. We're both _tired._ Neither one of us needs lights. So just shut up and go to sleep."

With nothing more than a 'harumph!' of an answer to that, in the face of his own drowsiness and Sherlock's logic, John picked his way through the rubbish that cluttered the floor and hesitantly fell onto the bed, fully clothed as he was. He got a pillow shoved in his face for his trouble.

"Thanksh," John replied, laying on his side and looking at Sherlock quizzically. However, the detective seemed in no mood for further words, as he reluctantly disentangled one blanket from the mass that ensconced him and gave one to his cold friend.

"These are new," John noted, realizing that he only remembered white blankets on Sherlock's bed last time he'd had a significant peek in the room two weeks ago. He tried to discern what color the dark blanket he'd been given was. "Black? Purple?"

"Inexpensive."

Sherlock spoke as if he couldn't even be bothered to move his lips, so it was a very garbled one-word response indeed.

It didn't take John too long to realize what new blankets must mean. "...Sherlock, did you forget to pay the heating bill?"

The response was not forthcoming, so he reiterated, " _Did_ you?"

"...Mhm..." came the sleepy reply, almost sounding like a snore except it was just a tad too defined to pass.

"Oh, come _on_ Sherlock! That was due weeks ago!"

"...was _gone_."

"Yeah, we _both_ were, you git. Unless you mean Pakistan. But I put the bill on your desk long before your most recent adventure, so no, you can't use _Pakistan_ as an excuse. By the way," he realized there was something he was missing, "why were you _in_ Pakistan, if I may ask? It's not exactly the safest-"

"-No."

The answer was very forthcoming, very forceful, and very clear.

"All right, all right, you don't have to tell me," said John, though he felt like he'd learned something interesting about Pakistan of late that might be relevant. The factoid escaped him, however, so he sighed.

Sherlock shifted, no longer with his back to John, instead facing the ceiling. His hands were pressed together as if in deep meditation, and his eyes were closed, their lids as gentle and wrinkleless as an angel's, John fancied. With the long, seductive lashes of an Egyptian goddess. And the smooth, unfurrowed cheeks of a child.

Indeed, Sherlock was so much of a child in so many ways, but John suspected it was largely because the man had needed to develop other parts of himself far beyond his years. After all, people develop with inconsistencies, like lumps of flour in bread dough. Sherlock was advanced beyond his age in so many respects, but really stunted when it came to some things.

John couldn't help but look upon his friend fondly as he watched the muddle of blankets rise and fall with Sherlock's increasingly-deep breaths. Sherlock's complacency was only disturbed with the occasional swallow of saliva, automatic and unnoticed, that caused his lower jaw to release the tension of being so firmly pressed against the upper jaw and the skin of his throat to expand and contract in a moment of energy.

Was John peering too closely? Perhaps, he acknowledged with a frown, strangely not as tired as he'd been. However, Sherlock seemed close to sleep, genuinely so. As his muscles suddenly, visually, relaxed in his face and steepled fingers, John decided that wasn't catnapping but deep, solid sleep. Sleep that Sherlock decidedly _needed_.

It wasn't frequently that John felt inclined to touch a mate beyond a hearty masculine arm-thumping or brisk handshake, but some instinct in him did want to scoop up the fragile frame of his friend and rock the detective, blankets and all, in his arms. It seemed that somehow, being close tonight was the best thing he could do at the moment for his friend.

Some moments later, Sherlock was snoring. John took comfort in that, wrapped his blanket around himself in a sad imitation of Sherlock's marshmellowy bubble, and let himself drift.

* * *

Prompt from Anonymous on Prompting Part XXVI on Sherlockbbc_fic


	15. The Laugh of the Detective

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What makes Sherlock laugh?" Apparently Mr. Jabez Wilson, who described how he'd been performing a data entry job advertized on Craigslist, for which he qualified because of his Medical Secretary certificate and, as he was told, due to his long fingernails.

**Gigue in G Major**

Humor wasn't exactly Sherlock's strongest point, John was quick to observe as their life in their Baker Street flat commenced. In all the world, as the earth rotated gently on its axis and circled the sun (as it was wont to do, as its hobby), John could not name two things that would make Sherlock laugh.

He could name one thing, however, and that was _stupidity_.

There were a few instances a week where Sherlock would laugh. It was not for very long, nor was it very hearty, and John felt it was rather more sarcastic than genuine, but it counted as humor, albeit barely.

The 'short bark,' as it has been popularly called, graced their Baker Street abode like an ill-tempered, fickle fairy. Present only when someone made a profoundly stupid observation (usually John, sometimes the telly), it consisted of Sherlock tipping his head back - onto the back of the couch if seated, otherwise as far back as his neck would allow - and giving one staccato noise from the base of his diaphragm. It was accompanied by an indignant, equine exhalation from flared nostrils, and usually preceded a lecture about _why_ whatever it was that was _wrong_ was a pathetic error of logic, or whatever.

Said 'bark' also showed up with its mate, the icy-chill-of-ignoring-someone, when Sgt. Donovan called him a 'freak' within earshot once, and also at other like instances when an insipid annoyance (not otherwise worth Sherlock's attention) presented itself.

There were also, on even rarer occasions, moments when Sherlock's eyes 'danced with amusement' as the hackneyed phrase goes. These presented themselves primarily when John made an observation that Sherlock thought astute, clever or ironic, though John could not predict what kind of comment would strike Sherlock in such a light. "You're an idiot," elicited this response more readily than anything else, he eventually realized, and the behavior often came with a tightening of the lips that hid a smirk. It was also accompanied by the act of quickly turning away; it seemed that anything was easier for Sherlock to admit than to acknowledge he'd found something funny.

But one day, to his surprise, John caught a glimpse of what he thought must have been a mythical creature - a genuine, wholehearted, side-tickling laugh that made his flatmate close his eyes, duck his head slightly, and mask the whole of his face with one hand as he roared.

It was a baleful day on Baker Street, the type of day that Sherlock had begun by rampaging in search for cigarettes in nothing but his bedsheet, continued by yelling at the picture of a missing child on the milk-carton, and further continued by sitting in the shower for three hours singing an entire opera by Rossini - all the parts, very badly, changing the end so that half the people killed each other.

The grace of God fell upon them, however, for by the noon hour a client arrived that wasn't as _boring_ as usual. While it meant that the lunch of beans on toast made by John went untouched by either of them, at least Sherlock was sitting somewhat still, was at least half-dressed, and was no longer stinking of whatever rubbish-bins he had been digging through the previous day.

For the past quarter hour, they had been listening to a client (a dull middle-aged divorcee who, as Sherlock deduced, had recently discovered a new favorite Chinese restaurant, was a keen jogger, showered twice a day, lived with his elderly mother and her two cats, and secretly frequented gay bars, though probably just on weekends while his mother was visiting family) drone on about his recent problem.

The man, a Mr. Jabez Wilson, described how he'd been performing a data entry job advertized on Craigslist, for which he qualified because of his Medical Secretary certificate and, as he was told, due to his long fingernails.

The company, "Doubled Digits Inc.," was a medical research firm managed by the innovative Dr. Samson Ross, who had found that men's keeping long fingernails was beneficial for their prostate health, advocating the practice to the point that the firm was conducting clinical trials to prove that keeping long fingernails could prevent prostate cancer and encouraging male longevity.

Because, apparently, of his conviction in the habit, Dr. Ross felt great solidarity with men of long fingernails and refused to hire anyone who did not have them upon application, as a testament of their faith in the practice.

Entrusted with this new job, as a man well-endowed with fingernails of his own, Mr. Wilson left a loyal non-long-nailed employee in charge of his small hobby-shop (business being slow), and spent his days typing the text from PDF-scan copies of anatomy books into a word processing document for the purpose of eventually compiling flyers for the company. He worked alone in an office where he was left to himself, since, as he was told, the main office did not have space for him to conduct this work, which, as they told him, would require great concentration.

On the third week, he arrived at the office only to discover that his job had vanished - the door was locked, no one else in the building had ever heard of the company, and the forwarding address left with the landlord by Dr. Ross was, upon Mr. Wilson's investigation, a manufacturer of prosthetic penises for female-to-male transsexuals.

Mr. Wilson's story ended by presenting the nondescript 8 1/2" x 11" paper he had found taped to the door; it read:

_Doubled Digits Inc. For the Promotion of Male Fingernails_

_IS BANKRUPT  
_

_October 9, 2010_

Mr. Wilson's face was rueful and forlorn as he presented the page, simply typed in Helvetica 12pt font, to the consulting detective. Sherlock took one look at it and passed it to John. At that moment, John marveled to see his flatmate's reaction; Sherlock's body was shaking almost to the point of convulsions and a Cheshire grin was stretching with eery vastness across his face, though he pressed a hand to his face and bent his head in a sad effort to hide his amusement.

Then again, maybe he wasn't trying too hard.

"Don' laugh! It isn't funny, y'know...I'm out seventy quid a week!" said Mr. Wilson, his face turning red with anger.

Sherlock was not able to restrain himself, now doubled over with his head between his knees, his laughter so violent that John kicked a plastic bucket (that had something rather nasty-looking but unidentifiable inside) at Sherlock's head lest the consulting detective needed to vomit into it.

"Sorry...ahem...I've never seen him like this," said John, barely able to swallow his own amusement. He'd never heard of anything so ludicrous as trying to prevent prostate cancer by growing out one's fingernails.

Such unbridled mirth, coming from Sherlock, was slightly disconcerting, but also exceptionally contagious. John kept looking back and forth between Sherlock and the client, the former's head bobbing up and down as he howled, the latter's face becoming increasingly pinched. While embarrassed at Sherlock's behavior, which was clearly becoming over the top, John could not help but be charmed by the situation.

It was _really_ very funny. And John's mythopoetic memory was suddenly activated, and he realized that the supposed-doctor's name was _Samson._ Samson, of Biblical origin, whose strength was in his hair...and, some scholars had argued, his finger-nails, too. It was increasingly clear that Mr. Wilson had been the victim of a rather elaborate - and expensive - prank.

_And_ the address left behind was literally a _penis factory_.

The more he thought about it, the harder it was to keep his amusement stifled. Sherlock wasn't helping matters by stomping his bare foot on the floorboards and clenching his hands in such a way that if he'd had long fingernails, he might have done serious damage to his palms; as it was, there were red welts forming in his alabaster skin from the pressure.

Still, somehow, John was enchanted by Sherlock's sudden regression to such a primal expressiveness. His friend was completely at the mercy of whatever part of this farce had tickled his humor so well, and now that the floodgates had been opened, there was no way to dam the water. As he'd lost control of himself, Sherlock was so fierce, so irrational, so _crazed_ that John felt like Tarzan had landed in their living-room.

It did occur to John that, with his mop of longish curls, wiry musculature, and impressive eyes, it wasn't much of a stretch to think that Sherlock had been transformed into an ape-man. This thought made him just want to bundle up his friend in something warm, give him a sedative and some hot tea, and force Sherlock to sleep for ten hours straight, even if he had to sit by the bedside every minute.

As it was at the moment, however, Sherlock was still laughing, Mr. Wilson was getting up and swearing at them both and knocking over the untouched plate of beans and toast that had been within Sherlock's reach, and Mrs. Hudson was turning off the vacuum cleaner she'd been using on the hall carpet and was knocking with curiosity on their door with her customary 'yoo hoo!'

John knew he could not take much more, and called for Mrs. Hudson to come in if she liked.

"That's _enough_ ," their visitor said, turning on his heel, "I heard you was good in a pinch, Mr. Holmes, but-"

Sherlock's hair was still wet from the shower, and all of a sudden, like a dog he shook it wildly, smattering John with water that smelled of pine-tar shampoo, and it was absolutely the last straw. John, unable to contain himself a moment longer, began to chuckle.

At which point, Sherlock sat bolt-straight up, serious as a priest in a second.

"Don't laugh, John, it _isn't_ funny. Do sit down again, Mr. Wilson, your case is really _most_ refreshingly unusual."

Realizing the absurdity of it all of a sudden made John completely burst into laughter, pressing one hand to his forehead in embarrassment and one hand against his stomach.

"I said, _don't laugh_ , John."

It was amazing how such a quiet command bore so much _gravitas_ and weight that despite the whole situation at hand, John immediately sat up straight and swallowed the last of his mirth, alert and at attention.

"Um. Yes. Carry on," he said.

But his snapping to seriousness was futile in the face of what followed.

Sherlock Holmes hiccuped.

It was undeniably the most irresistible and cute thing that he'd ever seen Sherlock do, intentionally or not. Sherlock sounded like a little girl squealing with delight, and his whole body shook, rigidly, under their influence. He was so startled that for a moment, he just sat there on the couch, his back as straight as a rod, as if he had been hitherto unaware that his body was capable of such a thing.

Mr. Wilson and John happened to meet each others' eyes, and neither of them could restrain themselves - Mr. Wilson gave a huge breathy laugh that almost resembled a sob, while John just chuckled and protested, "Oh God. Oh God..."

This turned Sherlock stone-faced, and he stood up silently and swiftly, but not before another _hiccup_ escaped his lips and his cheekbones flushed with pink.

"Go...go get a spoonful of honey, Sherlock, if we have some," John advised, not able to get up due to his own laughter, instead bending forward and hiding his face in a pillow to get a grip on himself.

Sherlock gave one final _hiccup_ before he left the room, glowering at the present company as if he hoped their heads would explode.

/

* * *

Response to prompt: Livejournal community, Sherlockbbc, Make Me A Monday - Week 71, user angieveep:

"John finds laughing Sherlock irresistible. So what makes Sherlock laugh?"


	16. Let the sunshine in

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I want to let the sunshine in, John. Help me let the sunshine in. Sherlock reflects on what he wants John to be. Metaphorical. Slash-ambiguous.

(From the perspective of Sherlock)

**Symphony No. 5 in F Major**

I want to let the sunshine in, John.  
I beg of you, move the clouds away.  
Help me part the leaflike shutters of 221B,  
And throw up the heavy sash  
Until I can close my eyes  
And breathe in the air of London  
At the close of an eternity of heavy rain,  
When the molecular concentration  
Of sulfur and carbon monoxide  
Is low, and the wind off the Thames  
Pushes the curtains apart at about 25 km/hr.  
Then I can open my lungs  
And let my pores breathe in the sunshine.

I know better than to pray, John,  
For God is but a sad delusion;  
I trust a good man more than I trust an icon.  
You're a good man, John;  
You do not beget life, but I see  
That life is around you and in you,  
And that sunshine is around you and in you.  
I believe you can fill my request.  
Indeed, you can confirm my own prescription,  
Or maybe tell me how I need a higher dose than I thought.  
But I don't believe my request would conflict  
With the judgment of your professional opinion.  
There needs to be some sunshine let in.  
Undoubtedly, I need some sunshine to be let in.

Nothing further needs to be said.  
Few men would I entrust with such  
A task as this, John, for it is indeed  
Akin to cleaning out the Aegean stables  
To merely get the shutters to stay open  
For more than the slightest second.  
Physics doesn't help me here  
As much as I wish it did;  
If I could have designed some marvelous thing  
To make this work on my own,  
I'd have long done it, John.  
I'd have full control over how much sunshine got let in.

As it is at the moment, though,  
I am frustrated, tired, and bored.  
You've got a more dogged temperament  
Than I have, at times, and find glory  
In the completion of a strenuous task  
That requires simply brute strength,  
Of a task not dependent upon the agility of the mind.  
This is one of those kinds of things, John,  
One of these difficult, boring things that must be done.  
But it's not pragmatic and it defies reason.  
I am loathe to admit how much I need it,  
For my mind is a mighty machine, John,  
But it's the context in which this machine exists,  
The jewel-case that holds it proudly,  
That is suffering so much without the sun.

John, you are invaluable in so many ways  
To such a crucial life-saving task as this is.  
Maybe I do believe in God, John,  
For I'm a genius of a kind,  
And we can deduce that such goodness as genius  
Comes only from a source that is  
Fond of giving out extras sometimes.  
But we're at war, John, and the sky is black  
With the confusion and chaos of battle.  
I fight, and have always fought  
Valiantly on the side of the angels,  
But I am keenly aware I'm not one of them.  
For angels not only drink of the sunshine, John,  
They radiate it from their thousand eyes.

I've never let the sunshine in, John  
All I have drunk up 'til now is the dark.  
That sweet seductive ambrosia of coldness  
And scorn and indifference and dispassion  
Worn like a winter coat with the collar turned up  
Can only carry a man so far  
When he is in opposition to the world.  
A world I can't prevent from dying  
But that I can at least ease into rest  
If I have a reserve store of sunshine  
As a bolster and a comfort.  
And I see you've got some sunshine, John.  
Loads and loads of sunshine.

I've been starved of sunshine my whole life,  
Living instead in the dark with the smells  
Of death, gunsmoke, and laboratories.  
I thought I was supreme, and that  
Lesser men couldn't survive where I have survived  
Deep in the trenches of dark French beaches  
But I didn't know that sunshine could shine there  
Or that a man like you could abide alongside me.  
So when we look at one another  
Lusting after life, experiencing every experience,  
It's a new wing of the mind palace illuminated.  
For you've lived a life in the sunshine, John.  
Help me let the sunshine in, too.

We don't know what lies ahead of us,  
A rush of greatness, a rush of pain;  
We dare not to look at each other in the darkness  
Lest each look be our last,  
But lo! a moment when the clouds have parted  
And the morning star is shining above,  
Your steadfastness is beside my flight of fancy,  
Stable, warm, unchanging, like sunshine.  
This makes the fight a pleasure, John,  
So the silence of unsung, lonely tunes within us  
Does not kill us from the inside out  
But is instead made relevant, acknowledged, and accepted  
And diffused as we gulp in the sun.

Dare I ask...dare I ask for a glimpse  
Of what a life of sunshine might contain?  
I've painted on our wall a smiling, pleasant face  
Of yellow, painted with liquid sunshine.  
And I shot at it, for such things as smiles are made  
For more mortal men than I,  
With hearts that are not steeped in the chemicals  
Of laboratories or evaluated in beakers.  
But since I cannot emit sunshine, it seems apt  
To do this strange kind of art, for you.  
Please understand, it is a kind of embrace.  
Or...a righteous kiss?  
Actualized, such a thing would dissect me  
Like a specimen. But perhaps I crave vivisection,  
As long as the blade is made of the most sterile sunshine  
And commanded by a man who _is_ sunshine.  
Seal the wounds, sew them up with stitches;  
I can bear the pain of the surgery if it is  
The only way to get the sunshine in.

For the human soul and psyche are twisted, John,  
Mine being no exception,  
As linear and logical as I try to be.  
Where there is confusion and chaos  
There are also great gaping holes of dark.  
I am not being sentimental;  
These are the places that anger broods  
Like mold, as well as the inspiration that comes  
And prods us to do what we would never dream to do.  
Also the bondage of self justification is rooted there,  
Fiercely tethered to the new lies we tell ourselves  
In moments of temptation and weakness.  
I have resisted these bonds for so long, John  
But my strength is wearing thin.  
The fibres of my being are no thicker than  
Strings on a spider-web sitar.  
It is imperative, for my sake and the world's,  
That you help me let the sunshine in.

Could I be a criminal?  
Do I dare to consider the taste of a bruised peach  
Or listen to the sirens singing, each to each?  
I grow old, John, I grow old  
And I think I have no purpose at times  
Except to stand like Atlas  
Solving lesser men's unfortunate crimes.  
It is a thought that dances increasingly closer,  
A hand subtly beckoning from a grave,  
And it promises an interesting future on the horizon  
Where everything...  
...Everything...  
Is dark and mysterious and glorious.  
But I turn my head, I back away.  
It is the destiny of someone else.  
I must bear a torch of sunshine  
To reveal that these thoughts are dusty mirages,  
But I also must let the sunshine in, John,  
To keep them from growing in the first place,  
For they cannot survive in the sun.

I think if I try to go without the sunshine  
For much longer, John,  
I will succumb to the great chasmic abyss  
That is evil...or worse!  
Can you imagine my body containing a soul  
So fractured by the cracks of darkness  
That it reflects two different men?  
One who works for the yin,  
One who reacts to the yin on behalf of the yang?  
...What am I saying, John! I am not clinically schizophrenic  
(I pray)  
But I fear that if I deny the possibility then indeed  
That is when the danger becomes real.  
I therefore consider it constantly with the hopes that  
In my predicting it, adequate preparations are made.  
So, how real is the man named Sigerson?  
And what of every cleaning-woman,  
Peddler, bureaucrat, gypsy, and businessman I have played?  
There is only one way to prevent such a splintering  
Of the self, John...and that is clear.  
Just help me let the sunshine in,  
Let the sunshine in, to let me see what is true.

I want to arise and go now,  
But fear that if I stand from this position  
Too quickly, or if someone slams a door,  
My iron ego shall weaken, and  
A fragment of my soul will become separate from my body.  
The sunshine must be gently let in, John,  
And dissolve the dark in those untouched spaces  
That my consciousness will not even recognize.  
I breathe with heavy breaths and try  
To contain all of myself at once  
While also understanding everything in the world.  
If I become a permeable membrane, John,  
And let every component of my soul  
Touch and oil the gears that make up the souls  
Of everyone and everything in this dying nation  
Then I will no longer exist, John,  
Nor will you, nor will England.  
I fear what the effects of the sunshine will be,  
It is true, but the thing about sunshine is  
It requires neither active transport nor diffusion  
To enter the body of the cell.  
The sunshine will not inhibit the integrity of  
My existence, I hope, John,  
For it is has magical powers of absorption  
That will allow me to accept it in.  
The sunshine will come in.

Be my Apollo.  
Be also silent, though.  
Lay down your harp;  
Let us rest in silence,  
Standing, short of breath, looking at one another  
While in the rising fog of a dying England.  
The silence is terrifying, though, John,  
Loathe as I am to acknowledge that I am scared.  
I am not deceived by my senses;  
Indeed, it is my senses that will save me  
As long as you balance out the coins in your pockets  
And talk for a while on the prolificity of oysters.  
Shall the world, then, be overrun by oysters?  
 _Ha!_ I made you wonder for a moment, John,  
I daresay not a very kind trick.  
But for a moment I made myself wonder too, John.  
Don't you see how vital, how elementary  
It is to allow the sunshine into the very  
Depths of one's being?  
I am asking for your small assistance in this matter, John,  
To help me let the sunshine in.

So I beg you to let me lay for awhile  
In vacant and pensive mood in the sun  
While you keep alert and ensure that  
The vulnerability I display is kept private.  
I need your help to see the sun, John.  
I need you to let the sunshine into  
This dark wet pithy crabapple of a man  
To soften his soul and allow it a chance  
To deduce some semblance of meaning from it.  
My flesh is failing for want of the goodness  
That comes with the deep beauty of sunshine.  
Don't let me fall while I drink  
Of the sunshine when I am most open to it.

Help me let the sunshine in, John.  
To let the sunshine in...  
...To let the sunshine in.

I want to believe it's not toxic to me yet.

* * *

*This is heavily inspired by "The Flesh Failures / Let the Sunshine In" from the musical, _Hair_.

  



	17. Oh Lord! I seem to be many things,

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oh Lord! I seem to be many things, I say to myself. Watson reflects on his identity and wonders how much of him is Holmes. Not slash. Poem.

From the perspective of Watson)

**Symphony No. 4 in G minor**

Oh Lord!  
I seem to be a bard, I say to myself  
As I feel inspiration well up in me  
To recount the tales of our adventures  
Like an African elder telling the village youth a parable.

Oh Lord!  
I seem to be a novelist or poet, I say to myself  
As I sit with a dripping pen  
Pushing words about in a sentence  
Like toy boats in a Hampstead Heath pond.

Oh Lord!  
I seem to be a historian, I say to myself  
As I chronicle our adventures  
In words of magnificence and delight  
Like Homer wrote of Odysseus.

Oh Lord!  
I seem to be a folklorist, I say to myself  
As I review the notes I've taken  
Of giant hounds, "vampires," and pygmies;  
Like the Grimms-brothers, I collect fairy-tales.

Oh Lord!  
I seem to be a psychologist, I say to myself  
As I find myself engaged in psychoanalysis  
Of the people we meet, classifying them,  
Like Freud or Jung, into archetypes.

Oh Lord!  
I seem to be a priest, I say to myself  
As I offer up words of support  
For those who approach me with sins on their tongues  
Like I have the power to absolve them.

Oh Lord!  
I seem to be a detective, I say to myself  
As I realize all these interrelate  
For my personality is complex and rich  
Like that of my friend, Mr. Holmes.


	18. The plight of the observant

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The plight of the observant. Sherlock explaining his philosophy about his place in the world, presumably reacting to something John said.

Symphony No. 3 in E Major

(As Holmes says to Watson:)

Virtue is a thing that is less simple  
To intuitively recognize than the common public imagines, John.  
It is the plight of the observant to notice  
That which will cause other people inconvenience  
Much more readily and quickly than others notice.  
Thereupon the observer faces a moral obligation  
Previously unknown to him, and not necessarily pleasant:  
To prevent the sort of accident predicted  
From becoming a reality.  
But it is a fruitless task to try and plug up  
With corks spun out of thin air  
The gaps in other peoples' consciousness  
That cause other people so much in the way of problems.  
There is not much virtue in being such a martyr, either;  
I think if there is a God, that is all he is doing at present,  
Patching up the potholes in the unfortunate lives of billions  
Of people too foolish to even realize that they've got holes.  
Like the British government is wont to do, people prefer  
To believe that the roads they build and drive upon are immaculate.  
It is much better, in my opinion,  
To let the gaps become apparent to the person on the road  
And allow them to seek a remedy on their own behalf.  
Who knows, they might discover  
That they are more able to save themselves  
Than they'd ever have previously thought!  
But frequently they come to me.  
Thank God at least some of these problems present  
Some element of genius!  
Too often the things that escape others' attention  
Are relevant exclusively to them, and only of mundane interest.  
And then by the time the issues are obvious,  
The causes and effects are also just as obvious  
And unworthy of any thought whatsoever,  
For they are indeed elementary and logical courses of events.  
In short, John, I could devote my life to very different ends,  
Be the type of person that, before a problem arises,  
Takes upon the task of correcting it.  
But this would be an endless struggle,  
And a less than fulfilling one.  
I prefer to allow people to make their mistakes  
And then, if they care to try, ask me to help  
Mop up the mess that they've made of their lives.  
I can be Hercules, but not Sisyphus.  
Do you understand?


	19. Death of HomeCentered Interests

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I suffer a secret death of home-centred interests!" Watson is sick of living at home, regrets being married, and thinks about the life of adventure he chose to give up as Sherlock Holmes' companion. Not slash.

Watson's musings, post marriage to Mary Morstan, between the events detailed in The Valley of Fear (January 1888) and the events occurring in "A Scandal in Bohemia," which takes place in late March 1888.

**Symphony No. 2 in F minor**

Why must I remain the captive audience  
For your experiences, living like a vicar  
With a promiscuous sister, delighting  
Secretly in her escapades and wanting  
So much to be more than just an observer  
But scared to even breathe over her shoulder  
As she engages in the sprightly dance  
To which I am now such a stranger.

I feel so keenly the thrill of longing  
To do more than listen to the final solution,  
And as I hear you languidly tell  
Of all the dangers and fates that befell  
You, all in the course of a day,  
How could I not wish to say  
That I had been there following,  
Breathing the sweet scent of a problem's fruition.

You mention these tales in passing,  
Sometimes you elaborate, sometimes not,  
Irrespective of my requests and pleadings.  
I imagine the most adventure when you deny me  
Any details whatsoever, and I sometimes fancy  
Picking the lock of your strong-box, chancing  
Your furiosity for the sake of having  
Captured a vision of your secret experiences beyond.

Of course I'd never do such a thing,  
But the critical fact is that I do yearn so,  
And this perplexes me and burdens my heart  
With sorrow; what a ridiculous choice to love and part  
From your side for the sake of a woman!  
Even if such a woman is my beloved Mary Morstan.  
Is a comfortable, safe marriage worth the sorrow  
That comes as you describe ousting latest criminal ring?

I want to be part of your next great adventure,  
In the rain, in the sleet, in the sun, in the snow,  
And somehow she seems to understand enough  
That she does not begrudge me hours on your Baker Street couch.  
But I can't up and leave without notice at your beckon-call,  
For as a doctor with a practice, I have responsibilities, after all.  
So strange that when in these times, I lay quiet and low,  
My health is more frail than in the days of ever-present danger.

Why must I close my eyes and wish away  
All of the things that my forefathers have said  
Would bring me the closest thing to earthly happiness?  
I suffer a secret death of home-centred interests!  
And I long for the days when my veins were alight  
With fear and staunch comradeship and the strength to fight;  
My patients would be far more interesting if they were dead  
By some foul killer, and us fervently pursuing his game...


	20. Sonnet to the Rose Monologue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "It is only goodness which gives extras." Focuses on The Naval Treaty's strange, beautiful little observation about roses made by Holmes.

(Presuming that the rose monologue was not a Watsonian liberty...Holmes wonders upon from whence those foreign words came.)

Sonnet to The Rose Monologue

I have walked with poets, but build an abode of science  
You traverse the sciences, but live in the dreamworld of poets  
But in company of the Phelps, I felt a strange defiance  
Toward method; strange! for you, not I, are more humbled before roses.  
From whence did that foreign, beautiful conclusion come,  
Lovingly said..."It is only goodness which gives extras."  
The human criminality of clergy once made my theological interest numb  
But my long disillusionment is broken - by no greater thing than _floras_.  
 _Whatever remains_ , however improbable, must be the _truth_ ,  
So I survey an emotional glacier to see what whispers on the fringes,  
And observe a few hair-thin cracks from which comes new green growth,  
As delicate and fine and miraculous as anatomical meninges.  
This is clear: some part of your poet-soul has been endowed to me  
And has become subtly ingrained in the fabric of my own identity.


	21. A night in the forest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "It's been some time since we traveled like this." Holmes and Watson have been traveling and stopped for the night in the forest. Slash happens. Very romantic.

For true Sherlockians who care about this sort of thing...I'd establish the timeframe for this as being some significant time after "The Noble Bachelor" but before "The Valley of Fear," namely mid or late November 1887. For all extents and purposes, this takes place upon the cusp of Watson's boredom with his anonymous third wife, the first time Holmes called him out for an adventure post his third marriage, which took place in mid-October 1887. For the sake of convenience, she will be named Mary, whomever she really is. I refer to this guide in establishing her existence: www . sherlockpeoria . net / Who_is_Sherlock / WatsonsWives . html Then again, I'm not sure that this site is heavily populated by Sherlockian scholars who care about such things as this.)

**Symphony No. 1 in E minor**

The wagon had paused its creaking

With a gentle sigh, squishing into the mud,

Breathing in the relief of a break in the long journey,

Letting its wood-and-iron muscles ease.

The dingy canvas of its canopy fluttered

Every moment or so as the breeze flirted with it

Tenderly, hesitantly, like Eve tickling her sleeping lover.

Green, green, green it was around them

The leaves growing blacker as the sun began to fade

And the golden brown moss on the trees and rocks

Dimmed to the color of the earth.

He and I descended from the wagon

And moved fluidly, swans in familiar water,

Rippling the silence with the snapping of twigs,

Stretching our limbs with arms full of kindling,

Clawing at the moist ground until it flamed.

Then, ruffling our feathers to fluff the down,

We set out a can full of beans and pork

A hard bit of bread, and some bruised apples

That rounded out our fare.

I wondered what Mary would be doing that night

If I were stretched before a different fire,

One in a chimney-place fire, not on the moor,

But my thoughts did not linger too long;

The soles of my boots, wet though they had been

Were steaming and as hot as sin.

"Move them, lest they catch fire," he said,

The first words he'd spoken for hours,

Post full three pipes and then some.

But he seemed to have tired of puzzles for the moment

And instead was comfortable in the present.

We heard a distant train, reminding us that not far away

The object of our quarry was still at large.

"It's been some time since we traveled like this."

His voice was not cold but not warm.

"It's not my fault, you scoundrel," I replied,

Punching him fondly on the shoulder,

"It's you who haven't called."

"Very well," he said, "but I know too well

Not to disturb you in your...quest for domesticity

Until some time has passed, enough that you've become bored."

"Bored of home? Not I!" I replied,

More from husbandly duty than vindication.

"But I do admit that I've had too little exercise of late."

"Don't you mean _too much?"_ he asked, with enigmatic eyes.

When I did not reply, he added, "of a less than ideal sort?"

I was baffled by the question and I told him so,

And he silently shrugged and turned to face the fire,

His face aglow, his pipe alight, his locks heavy on his brow.

I said, "I think, Mary and I, we'll find we're expecting by the time I get back to London,"

This was optimistic and a lie, borne of resolution

And a desire, perhaps, to disturb him.

Prattler as I was, I tried to read his vacant expression as he said:

"Oh, jolly day, another Watson."

It was a nondescript comment,

But made with such nonchalant carelessness

I could not help but feel sore at its lance.

There was some attitude behind the words

That discomfited me, but I could not place it.

"That's not fair, Holmes," I breathed, "I'm not trying to establish a dynasty..."

But I could not further protest, for I was hampered

By inability to discern what pressing issue he had;

Other than that perhaps I was succumbing

To the _delectationes humanas_ to which all men

(Aside from Holmes, married to his work)

Were so pleased to be vulnerable.

I never was so instilled with hubris

To believe that I was immune to such a disease

As _l'amour pour les femmes_ , but it seemed

That Holmes thought I should be above seeking

To play with the fire that so frequently burnt me.

(A fire that currently, as my presence there testified,

Was on its way to a stifled, bitter death.)

"But you have never been one to avoid trying

A thing once it's lodged in your brain," said he,

Brushing ash off his linen coat sleeve.

"If all men seek immortality, as you remind me Plato says,

And you pursue your passions with this knowledge in hand,

It is clear to your astute observer – and friend –

That you would be better served to stick to the cannons

Than to shoot the brush with haphazard shrapnel.

Focus on developing your talents of the _mind_ , Watson,

And leave other remarkable powers for unremarkable men."

Feeling somewhat violated and perplexed,

Wondering what the point of his saying such things might be,

I lit my own pipe, swallowed, chose not to answer,

And entered my own meditative trance.

Some time passed, and then he rose,

Knocking ash about as he went

To get the coarse blankets of wool

That we'd brought to make our beds.

"It'll be cold tonight," said he,

Sniffing the air and glancing about.

"Should we keep a watch on the fire?"

"I can't tonight, Holmes," I groaned,

"Truly, truly, I'm beat."

"As am I," he agreed, with a sigh, "so let us be cold."

And he threw me a bolt of cloth to unwind and lay upon.

I could scarce keep my eyes open

But soon the fire died down

And he kicked wet moss over the embers

And lay himself to rest as well.

Too soon the warmth of the fire was gone,

Bearing with it all sense of security;

I was soon awake to hear howls and screeches

Of the nocturnal beasts of the forest dark.

Holmes was unflappable in his repose,

Snoring lightly through his great large nose

And curled in an untidy heap.

I rolled close to him for warmth,

Our strong spines touching each other.

Even as the wet damp of the moor began

To cling to the very hairs of my whiskers

I'd have never moved closer,

Except, all of a sudden, in the midst of my doze

I felt a strangely gentle tug

At the corner of my rug, which emerged

From the place where my shoulder pinned it to the earth.

"That's mine," I said with staunch conviction, roused from my rest,

"You should have brought another one

If your bones can't stand the late-autumn chill."

He made no reply, appearing to be acting so in his sleep

And for a breath he paused his grappling

Only to continue, anew and fresh.

"If you are trying to solve the mystery in your dreams," said I,

"By grasping at straws for clues,

I beg of you, let it manifest some other way."

This request had no effect on my associate's wandering claws.

"Keep your hands to yourself, Holmes," I gave the command,

But to no avail my words were flung.

Without the desire to wake him fully

Or the patience to deal with the antics any longer,

I unraveled myself and flung the thing upon him,

Which quieted the hand, with a mind of its own, for a while.

Now unpleasantly awake, I rose to light the fire

But as I fumbled with a match I saw

He was reaching out again, then turning and thrashing

As though he were seized with a fit.

Ever attentive to the silent call for help

I went to him and knelt at his side.

No sooner did I lay my hand on his shoulder than did

His symptoms clearly abate.

Intrigued, I removed my hand, to receive a whimpered reply,

Only eased by my renewed touch.

My fingers beginning to numb with the cold,

I sought to withdraw again,

But the hair on my arm had barely stirred

Before his hand twisted around, clasped mine,

And his whole body realigned, bearing my arm undercover.

I was left in the uncomfortable lurch of decision:

Would I move and awaken him,

A difficult strategy, and less than kind,

Or simply let him keep my arm where it was

And sink further into the warmth he seemed to want to share?

Pragmatics convinced my conscience that I was doing Mary no disservice;

It was nothing like the fight to outlive Afghanistan,

But survival is as survival does,

And I thought she would prefer me home alive and well,

Less a cold and fever, than abstaining from an unorthodox invitation.

So thinking, I lay next to him on the ground,

My breaths barely greater than a whisper,

And I remarked upon the softness of the moss bed

And the deep rich hum of my friend's exhalations in my ear.

He was now generous in his sleep with the blanket,

Covering my body more than his own,

Though I did not see it at the time;

I was too quickly back to deep dreams.

When morning came and I awoke

To see his eyes above mine dancing with silent mirth,

To feel the wiry warmth of his immeasurably strong arms around me,

To sense the fierce protectiveness and victory in his face,

I knew I had battled and lost, but that I also had been wooed.

There on the forest floor, in our garb

I struggled to find words, but also to collect my thoughts.

"Trickster!" I said, but meant no anger.

"That may be so," said he, "but the trickster only succeeds

Because people only believe what they want to believe."

"What do I believe, Holmes?" I asked,

Feeling an untouched tremor in my body and soul

Begin to vibrate with the force of a symphony

Played by a thousand violins.

"Data, data, data," he said in reply, taking my pulse with a thumb,

"I can't make bricks without clay."

He leaned in close to me now, as keen as when experimenting,

But different colors were in his eyes;

The same thirst was there, but far less direct, much more nuanced.

I could not bear to see his unsettling searching look

Against the glare of the rising sun through the trees

For then his face was like Adonis, beautiful and sage,

Melancholy and uncertain, not bereft of coldness or brilliance

But still more human and more divine than ever I had seen.

"Do you feel this way for Mary?" he asked, sensing my emotions, seeking truth.

I could not deny it him, and cursed his reminder of my responsibility.

"It's different with her, yes," I replied, " but damn you, Holmes,

Could not that question have waited?"

"Waited for what?" he asked solemnly, testing me,

And it was clear that there was but one way to respond.

A hesitant peck on his lips; it was truly strange

Buy at least we were somewhat now on the same page,

And I had tossed him the ball to catch.

He smiled with gratification and jubilance,

Marked with additional grace that was unbeknownst to me.

He seemed to savor the moment, so much so that

I began to wonder if I had made a mistake.

But then he laughed with a bark of liberation

And pursued my lips with a grateful kiss of reply.

I felt the tension ease from his muscles then,

As if he had kept this great secret since the day we first met,

And, truth be told, I do think that was the case.

He was both changed and unchanged when we separated again,

Panting as the gold of late autumn sunshine began

To make the wet ground steam in delight.

His ego was intact, but his demeanor more free.

We gazed into each others' eyes with new understanding

Until he chose to rise, pat and bridle the horse,

And groan that I should consider building a fire.

Nothing was different now, in truth,

I thought as I began the task,

I would return home after all to Mary and our collective brood,

But as I caught Holmes' eye,

Which was shiny and bright with the hint of a smile,

I knew that my adventures with Sherlock were no less important than ever;

There was the promise of adventurous, intriguing times ahead

Imbued in a context of even deeper, more meaningful mystery.

**Author's Note:**

> Fanfiction Writers and (non)Celebrities: What Do They Know? Do They Know Things?? Let's Find Out!  
> [Tumblr](https://lady-heliotrope-writes.tumblr.com/)  
> [Ko-Fi](https://ko-fi.com/ladyheliotrope)


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